Lunchbox Poems

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

HETTIE JONES