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.