The Library of Weather

In the attic, glass jars hold the mornings when the rain forgot its own name, light tasting of metal and apples. I open a lid and hear the map uncrumple.

A storm is a folio of bent-backed pines, inked with the blue of distant sirens, pages that hum when the roof breathes. My hands smell of ozone and wool.

I shelve the mild days by the window: small winds that taught the curtains to dance, a thin sun that learned the alphabet of dust, a cat asleep in the spine of the afternoon.

Night comes to borrow a book. It signs its name in the margin of the sky, returns a silence stamped with frost. I lock the door and keep listening.