(With a chance of scattered grumpy late in the day)

Ben Franklin-types have
often passed their time
on nauseating ocean
crossings

or endured hermit winters
by noting the changes
in pressure, winds and 
temps.

Centuries of data, thrown
at supercomputers, now
tell us when to bundle
up.

We also have millennia
of journals and literature,
all our minds’ recorded
states.

Yet who would forecast
our mood, in aggregate?
Which demeanor to pull
on

over our disposition, or
when the mood of the
room will be so warm at
lunch

that we should be
prepared to strip off
all our layers by the
end?

Or that the hailstorm
of frustration that slows
us on our commute
home

will give way to “partly
contented with a light
breeze by early
evening”?

Can we measure our
mutual barometries?
Are they rising or
falling?

Aren’t they, as in
Earth’s atmosphere,
the indicator of
everything?

Origins:

Based on this prompt:

For today’s prompt, I want you to take the phrase “Partly (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and then write the poem. For instance, your poem might be titled “Partly Cloudy,” “Partly Crazy,” “Partly Out of Touch,” or whatever.