Climate is what you expect, but the weather is what you get.

It's a beautiful day! The sky is brilliant blue with a few sparse wisps of white cloud. My window is open to let a chill breeze swirl in my room and the gauzy curtains dance on every zephyr while the giant house cat sits beneath them. My little house plant has finally grown another bud on its stalk. I have two large lemons from a neighbor's overabundant harvest sitting on my window sill. They're nearly as hard as rocks but their cheery yellow roundness and faint scent brighten my room. The birds are out en masse, chirping and whistling. I saw a young wood pecker with a red cap on my morning walk.
Blue, green, yellow: Spring is definitely approaching.
Yes, I know it's still January. Try telling that to Houston. Houston doesn't care. Houston does what Houston wants.

Or, so I said yesterday.
Today is touched with a gothic beauty. The sky is silver grey and the chill air is stirred by a low, constant breath. The oak trees reach to the sky with limbs like great pythons searching for the sun, but are thwarted and frozen in place. The birds are still here, but they are cawing and sighing over the injustice of winter on their hollow bones, not singing in the sun.

Houston doesn't care. Houston does what Houston wants.