Because we talk we talk about the weather,
its predictable mood-swings, good days, off days,
days that come at any time of year
as if from nowhere – stormy, or so sweet
we have to go outside to feel, together,
their July-in-April, March-in-May,
nostalgic for a world whose atmosphere
adapted us as we adapted wheat,
leaving hill-top forts to thorn and heather
while we cut the forest and made hay.
Remembering our parents’ parents’ fear
of not enough, then nothing left, to eat,
we grow too much, only preparing for
what we expect the weather has in store.
