Punctuation. Pedantry.
It’s not a question but
a wall, impermeable
by design. The forecast
has been wrong all week;
I anticipate wrongness now
like expecting rain, the hail
that fell for hours, you
can tell it will by
the color of the sky,
or at least I thought
you can, that doubtful
gray superimposed
on blue. Hard rain
that doesn’t roll off,
the wind compels it,
impels it. And falling silent,
do I repel, or welcome it?
OPTIONAL POETRY 
That seems so often to be the question: repel or welcome…
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Dear C, we are having our second snow day in a row here and it’s making me contemplative too. I predict cabin fever. Still I detect a little hope in your poem. x
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We always have such similar forecasts… Thank you, Pola!
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No worries, it’s already melting like a sigh.
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