Weather Forecast of the Soul

If my mood today were a weather forecast,
it would begin with the meteorologist's
steady voice announcing:

Partly cloudy with a chance of sudden clarity,
temperatures fluctuating between
the warm front of contentment
and the cool shadows of
unfinished thoughts.

I wake to overcast skies behind my ribs,
a low-pressure system settling
in the hollow of my chest
where yesterday's anxieties
have formed a persistent fog.
The barometric pressure drops
as I remember the email
I haven't sent,
the call I haven't made,
the dream I almost caught
but lost between
the snooze button
and the first sip of coffee.

By mid-morning,
scattered showers of productivity
begin to fall—
light at first,
then building into
a steady downpour of
crossed-off tasks
and completed sentences.
The windshield wipers
of my attention
clear the glass
just long enough
to see the road ahead,
though the storm clouds
of next week's deadlines
gather on the horizon.

Around noon,
the sun breaks through—
a patch of blue
in the gray expanse
of routine.
Someone laughs at my joke,
the sandwich tastes
better than expected,
and for exactly seven minutes
I remember what it feels like
to be present in my own skin,
to inhabit this moment
without checking
the weather app
of my future worries.

But weather is never
just one thing.
The afternoon brings
a temperature inversion,
warm air trapped
beneath a layer
of cool doubt.
I check my phone
seventeen times
in twenty minutes,
each notification
a small lightning strike
illuminating the dark sky
of my restlessness.

The wind shifts—
from the north,
carrying with it
the scent of rain
on distant pavement,
memories of summer storms
when I was nine
and thunder was just
the sky's way
of clearing its throat.
I want to be that child again,
pressing my face
against the window,
watching the world
wash itself clean.

By evening,
the forecast becomes
more complex:
isolated thunderstorms
of self-doubt
moving through
the valley of my thoughts,
followed by
unexpected bursts
of golden light
when I remember
that I am loved,
that I am enough,
that tomorrow
will bring
its own weather patterns.

The humidity rises
with the approach
of night—
that thick air
before sleep
when the day's
accumulated moisture
begins to condense
into the dew
of small epiphanies:
the way light
fell across the table
during lunch,
the stranger's smile
on the subway,
the fact that
I made it through
another day
without breaking.

If my mood today
were a weather forecast,
the overnight low
would be
the temperature
of longing—
not quite cold enough
to be despair,
but cool enough
to make me pull
the blanket
of hope
a little tighter.

Dawn will bring
a 60% chance
of optimism,
with variable winds
and the possibility
of sudden sunshine
breaking through
the morning mist
of half-remembered dreams.

The extended forecast
shows a pattern
of mild instability—
some days
will be all thunderstorms
and tornado warnings,
others will dawn
clear and bright
with unlimited visibility
and a gentle breeze
from the direction
of possibility.

But here's what
the weather service
never tells you:
even on the cloudiest days,
the sun is still shining
somewhere above
the atmospheric theater
of our emotions.
Even in the eye
of the hurricane,
there is stillness.
Even in the drought
of inspiration,
underground rivers
continue to flow.

If my mood today
were a weather forecast,
it would end
with the reminder
that all weather
is temporary—
that storms pass,
that seasons change,
that the barometric pressure
of the heart
is always shifting,
always responding
to forces
both seen and unseen.

Tomorrow's forecast:
Variable clouds
with a strong chance
of gratitude,
occasional showers
of grace,
and the persistent
high-pressure system
of love
moving in
from the west,
bringing with it
the promise
of clearing skies
and the kind of light
that makes
ordinary things
luminous.

And now, back to you
in the studio
of your own
beautiful,
unpredictable
life.