The weather came out of a place that she had not touched in a while
a sudden shift, and she smelled the dampness of rain on creosote soaked ties

bulbs beneath parched soil pushed at her feet, ready to feel her breath
earthworms stretched threadbare and then thick, and heavy, and oily, and persistant

cardboard cutouts that she created could not withstand the spinning onslaught
this diorama would fall under its own soggy weight; yarn, buttons, and glitter

this place, this forsaken grotto, was now steaming with the grip of the weather
the daily news unimportant, the open windows vivid, the songs now so much like movies

the steady tick-tick rhythm of routine gave way to a pulse in a fully different time
no 4/4 or even 7/8, this new signature required the tala master of Indian classical music

fragrances forsook their meanings, expressed themselves in the storm as roadsigns
the map blustered away long ago and the path slithered onward toward trembling

the weather drinks, drinks of the pool slowly, deliberately, and delicately
it lifts, it gives, it erases, it writes. Mounting its tempo, it nurtures softly

the gift of the weather has now put a destination on her brow, once heavy
a postage stamp whose denomination far exceeds the necessary rate to get her there

traffic just buzzes, phones merely ring, accountants dress in bright serapes
she sees no beginning, she sees no end… she is the eye.

© Tom Watters  3/25/06