For three weeks after the autumnal equinox
the sun still burns strong, the air still steams.
Global warming, we agree. At last comes the day
that dawns dull. Overcast. Walking to work,
or to lunch, we feel the wind nibble,
the atmosphere edge toward the eruption
that comes midafternoon. At five o’clock
the downpour soaks my shoes as I step
into the street on my way to my sister’s apartment.
Ten floors above First Avenue, my niece
has abandoned her perch before the television
and stands at the balcony door. Together,
we watch the rain pelt the ground and study
the charcoal sky. My niece presses four-year-old palms
against the glass. "Poor Sun," she says.

This poem first appeared in The Christian Science Monitor.
Used here with the author’s permission.