Weather   Each moment has its weather, stakes its own claims on the heart. We remember the fall afternoons, before we’ve gnawed to the bone   of the season — we forgot we were waiting. Then the phone rings. New moment, new tone, a shift in the light, a little too late   to hide. The first stab of cold seems to stall in a whispered blizzard of calculations, questions, fears. We’ve all received that call.                                                       for Alan Holm     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2013