Becky sweeping snow off of the front porch,
the lights in and out again,
Keith filling the bathtub with water,
Neil getting high on the tweed couch,
the wind screaming through the orchard,
Dan losing his car in the driveway,
our schoolwork put off to watch the weather.
I place a phone call to the other coast
to hear it's sunny and 70 there.
It was the third major storm of the season,
a blizzard or a nor'easter, I can't remember,
but it felt good: the smell of bread
pulled from the oven and potatoes frying
(sweet potatoes, with onions,) and baseboard heaters,
the feel of my wool socks on the hardwood floor,
good wool blankets, bong hits,
the red Oriental rug, and that Rick James song
that I had to hear; the comfort of familiarity
against the storm.     That was it,
that night, and I miss it: that weather
we couldn't change.    No one talks about
the night before The Shooting, but it was fun,
and I remember it: Keith's thesis a week
late, the printer refusing to merge text
and graph, the lights in and out again,
the smell of sweet potatoes and wet wool.