we talk about the weather but really we're talking about the distance between us

i am so glad to go outside again.
the daffodils have tongues out 
& eyes blinking at the ardent light. 
yesterday it snowed in april
& i almost called you 
to ask if you remember when we 
built a house from the snow. 
you would not have been home then.
we talk in the driveway. i wonder if
you still call me "niece" 
when i am not around. it is almost always better
to not know how others speak of you. 
they can conjure all the ghosts they want.
you tell me soon it will be 
baseball season. baseball season is
always just around the corner.
the sun is getting bigger they say.
a thunderstorm is coming. a blizzard
is in the pillowcase. i love to wake up
to the fog, you say & i imagine
you walking the dirt paths 
that weave between the corn fields.
in the fog i disperse. i become a silk scarf,
or, worse, a veil. winds are picking up.
pull leaves from the oak trees.
hands slapping the pavement.
it will be time to remove the storm windows.
then it will be time to turn off the heat.
put the jackets back in the foyer. 
those itchy red gloves. you tell me
you look forward to the heat. 
i tell you that i put in my air conditioners
this morning. stood in front of the cool air.
hurricane season is no longer a season,
it is a way of life. naming the children
who will tear the shingles from the roof.
i wonder if, in the back of your freezer,
there's still a sphere of hail 
from the time they fell the size of golf balls.
we harvested them like the seeds 
of future faces. if it is there, i think 
i want it back. i do not call you though.
it rains. nothing grand or extravagant.
the kind of rain not worth talking about.