My aunt says the weather girls are lucky. 
They wear pretty skirts and high heels 

but don't walk anywhere. No aching soles
or sprained ankles as they breeze across 

the TV screen—opening doors of sunshine, 
casting cities into deep freeze. One tells us

to expect rain as she summons a patch of green, 
spreads it like algae across the humid southeast. 

At my aunt's Florida house, only ocean: 
static-sound, low radio tuned to lunar moods. 

The tide delivers shells as we stroll barefoot 
on the beach. My aunt wears braids, I don a hat 

with ribbons. We dodge jellyfish strewn like veiny balloons, 
cockles we'll glue onto boxes. They'll turn the house 

fragrant with salt so we’ll remember the pleasure 
of not knowing what's coming—how sand dunes 

change shape and driftwood mimics modern art. 
At home, we lose ourselves in books, steep green tea, 

watch dry bundles of lightning illuminate 
distant clouds. Still, no rain. What’s the forecast

for tomorrow? I ask. Hold on, says my aunt, 
let me put on high heels, and I’ll tell you a lie.