Weather
by Hettie Jones
My folder of poems
labeled "weather" holds
no clues as to whether
or not there’ll be any
weather to count on, say,
a hard rain like "little nails," or
that deluge "plunging radiant"
now that we’ve plunged into war
and wars don’t stop like rain stops
like that last slow drizzle
onto the old tin bathroom vent
sweet hint of growth
in the soft wet drift north
fire or ice, fire or ice
are you breathing, are you lucky enough
to be breathing
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