You and I Talk about the Weather

by Laura Ross

You and I talk about the weather,
knowing whatever you have
will ebb its way southward to me.
Jet stream is what we call
our connection—clearly
dependent on wind, nothing static
on the line. Sky-housed satellites
tick with barometric data, our voices
in the round, umaveling
the long coastline between us.
From your yesterday to my tomorrow,
the same rain. Highs and lows.
Artic chill, barely a sheen in the subtropics,
where currents humming in your eastern pines
will ruffle the fronds of my queen palms.
How can I say that I carry more
than just your weather—
an instinctual ache in my bones.
What drifts from your latitude to mine
grows warmer here—
vapors lofting into the same words:
nimbus, cumulus, cirrus, stratus.
Syllables so soft they should be
written longhand in languorous script:
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.