Inspired by Maggie Smith’s first line in her poem Goldenrod, “I’m no botanist.”

I’m no meteorologist— if there’s a cloud overhead—
wispy, dense, puffy— it means rain. If I walk

outside and my glasses fog up, it’s high humidity,
and I’m meant to stay inside. I wake to happiness

or sorrow or numbness or upheaval—
sometimes more than one in a single day.

Especially here in Kentucky, every day
waking and wondering what’s to come.