I wrote this soon after Mikey and I moved to Raleigh, and every year it’s the same story. If it weren’t for how much I treasure our friends here, the pull of snowy climes like the Pacific Northwest or New England would be much harder to resist.
At home, this grey-brushed
sky would signal snow. We’d watch
the clouds, sniff the air
for that cold, clear wildness. We’d stock
up on firewood,
check the root cellar
for canned goods and fill milk jugs
with water; we’d watch
the forecast as a
gesture, tune in the weather
radio, and wait.
Last year this time, we’d
seen snow twice. But here, all the
weather yields is rain.