A Prophet Outpointed

At last the weather man has been
Shaken from out his mood serene;
   And I, who longed to see surprise
   Leap to those caLm, prophetic eyes,
Rejoice at last a flaw to see
In his infallibility.
 
For now I own this haughty touch
Of cool aplomb annoyed me much.
   To see him sitting there so still
   While wind and weather worked their will
On lesser mortals, stricken sore,
Made me feel most inferior.
 
"Nothing unusual," he'd say,
When on some strange November day
   Hail, snow and sleet began to fall.
   "Nothing unusual at all."
And, as the chill blast froze and bit,
He'd lisp, "Oh, I expected it."
 
Or, mayhap, on some night in June,
Something would happen in the moon
   Or sun, or mid the unfixed stars
   That upset all his isobars
With sudden heat.  Was he perturbed?
"Old stuff," he'd murmur, undisturbed.
 
Often, I own, have I been beat
By summer cold or winter heat;
   But when I sought him in his lair
   He humbled me with his sure air.
"Record?" he'd laugh.  "Why, man alive,
'Twas just like this in eighty-five."
 
And now the words I hoped would fall -
"Exceedingly unusual" -
   Drop from his lips, and I'm content
   To know him not omnipotent.
For once, at least, he's missed the bus;
He's human, like the rest of us.