Weather

 

Each moment has its weather, stakes its own

claims on the heart. We remember the fall

afternoons, before we’ve gnawed to the bone

 

of the season — we forgot we were waiting.

Then the phone rings. New moment, new tone,

a shift in the light, a little too late

 

to hide. The first stab of cold seems to stall

in a whispered blizzard of calculations,

questions, fears. We’ve all received that call.

 

                                                    for Alan Holm

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

December 2013

 

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