Linda Lee Welch
Weather
She doesn’t like the weather much this time of year
has friends to make it better for her when they’re in town
which is almost never these days. Her moods are fixed
by the shape of the sky, how it snoods the view.
All things made of air depress her, the pressure of it
bearing down, it’s impolite somehow, plain rude.
The rattlers curl down deeper under stones when she comes near
cicadas stop their creaking in the magnolias, waiting
for all clear. We will screech our wings together again
they tell each other, wishing away the unseasonal stillness,
We will be what we are, they pray in pantomime
and wonder what she might take into her head to do about it.
And then, the rain, the rain, sneaking into everything.
Her hair sticks to her neck and forehead like itchy gauze
she feels shrouded by circumstance, headed for lock-up
at hydroponic speed, carried away by weather
that should know its place as she knows hers, or did once
when her feet were always bare and the windows always open.
has friends to make it better for her when they’re in town
which is almost never these days. Her moods are fixed
by the shape of the sky, how it snoods the view.
All things made of air depress her, the pressure of it
bearing down, it’s impolite somehow, plain rude.
The rattlers curl down deeper under stones when she comes near
cicadas stop their creaking in the magnolias, waiting
for all clear. We will screech our wings together again
they tell each other, wishing away the unseasonal stillness,
We will be what we are, they pray in pantomime
and wonder what she might take into her head to do about it.
And then, the rain, the rain, sneaking into everything.
Her hair sticks to her neck and forehead like itchy gauze
she feels shrouded by circumstance, headed for lock-up
at hydroponic speed, carried away by weather
that should know its place as she knows hers, or did once
when her feet were always bare and the windows always open.
Page(s) 35
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