Notes on the weather

 Notes on the weather
 

My grandmother had locust seeds in a shallow basket
right by the window that opened to a view of the canyon
which yawned as far as the ridge at Chesinmus.
These long pods, the color of tanned leather, were polished
by our fingers, a slow mediation along the smooth length,
the play like prayer beads,  as we stood reading
her entries for weather, which she made five or six times each day,
noting the barometer reading, the temperature.
Outside the window hummingbirds fought along the garden’s
edge, sparrows looked for ways into the strawberry netting.
The pods weighed less than a sparrow and each vibrated
with seeds full of the dry heat of summer.
 
I wonder where these things are now, the notebook full
of careful records in a script no one learns anymore. Where
is the basket, a small hand woven object brought back
from New Mexico or Arizona. I wonder about the hands
that are touching them, or if they were long ago discarded
and no matter to the person who they came to. I often long
for the familiar feel of an object held so frequently
its skin became part of my own. Now I feel the heft
of my own heart is of no more consequence than the secret
weight of the salamander we found in the earthen cellar
one hot summer day waiting for the weather to change.

~~~

This is a poem about a place and time. The time was long ago and faraway, the place was my grandma’s house (my maternal grandmother). And this picture of us I just saw for the first time when I was in Oregon in May. On the back it says May 1983, but I know that is wrong because in May 1983 I was in Naples, Italy. It has to be from the summer of 1985, when missing the West, I flew home. I think it is my new favorite picture of my grandmother, she looks so happy and "conspiratorial": during that visit we shared a pony beer on the back step some evenings, or maybe she had told me something in secret, whatever it was I adore this.