The umbrella is by the door,
still coiled up and dry,
save for dust droplets.
I swear, the last time
I moved it from its resting place
it was heavier than before,
absorbing stagnant clouds
and exhaling anticipation.

We both sigh.
I count the raindrops that do not come,
the flowers’ dying petals
an upturned flag on the mailbox.
There are letters to send;
the postman should be here
soon.

I curse my arthritis
before the weather;
I have to hold my breath
when I climb upstairs.

Petrichor is at the door.
I am playing an outdated forecast,
watching the clouds rolling in.