The Forecast

A poem by Eric McCool, written sometime around 2004

In my lungs is my laughter, in the clouds are my tears. In these words is my meaning, but they soon disappear 

All around me are vibrations that my ears turn to sound. In my pockets are pieces of the puzzles I’ve found 

In my head is the picture they form, put together. My eyes are the forecast of my heart’s fickle weather   

If I came out of nowhere, then whence am I bound? My eyes on the heavens, my feet on the ground 

My hands long to touch the softness of skin, but for every woman they grasp, they end up empty again 

Asleep then awake, in love then alone. A flower that’s blossomed, a child that’s grown   

Something is stirring, my hairs stand on end. Movements are measured, but measurements bend 

Mystery permeates the fabric of being, magic explains all the things that I’m seeing 

My life is all memories, except for right now.  The past is my promise, the future my vow