Pollen Count
Danielle Marie Cahill
This poem first appeared in The Quarter(ly).
My computer tells me the weather There is a high pollen count today As if that matters deeply to someone Imprisoned in a glass tower At night, my daughter asks if I saw the rain She mimics the pattering noise with her Fingers over the mound of the duvet I pretend I did. The she reminds me how in February We stuck out our tongues to feel snowflakes Falling–so gentle and so cold We both catch imaginary wisps for a while I tell her that I love the rain Tomorrow, I must go outside to feel the drops On my face–not learn about it far too late In the left-hand corner of my shining screen
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This poem is published in The Quarter(ly)
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