He could tell what sort of day it would be.
"Snow," "Sun," even "Clouds, no rain,"
by inhalation, it seemed.
Tweed cap pushed back, yellow barn
jacket buttoned to the throat, he gazed
beyond any solid object. "How?" I asked.
"I see it. So can you. Look at the density of the air.
The vibration of blue particles."

I could no sooner see than scoop a
handful of moon to my lips or taste the sky.

"Sultry summer," my husband lamented every
august afternoon, but he spoke of recent history,
whereas our boy sang of what would come to pass.
I so relied on his facility for forecast that I forgot
what not knowing was like, how cold a day could be.

When my son had surpassed my height, he started
to ask me what the day might bring. "But you know,
my darling, I have no skill for augury." "Try," he said.
"Look at the part of the air you don’t breathe."

One afternoon in stocking feet he ambled
down the sidewalk and shimmied up to his old perch
in the ginkgo tree. "Do you see it now?" I called
from the front porch. "No, Mom," he called back,
"I honestly no longer know how. It was a gift. We
used it up." And then he skittered up three more branches.

"Now you try," he said. "It's also in the breath you exhale."
And as I looked into space he climbed higher again,
another three branches, and flew away.