The Weather of Our Days

Abstract

The Weather of Our Days Peter Filkins (bio) Envoy A burl of light on a pane-glass window;light drizzle, wet snow, eruptive weather. And this our only legacy—to knowthe muted cloud that glances offa mirrored surface yet more realthan the cloud itself, muddy Aprilindecisive to the last, mimicking the shudder of wipers back and forthacross the heated slope of windshield,or unveiled at the corner of Main & North,that storefront window reflecting backthe curve of heaven, the rising exhaust, pedestrians astride the polished glass,the cars rolling by, the dog on its leash. Day In, Day Out The lag and slow and lazy snug of it.Rain pattering the roof, house lights onat 10 a.m., the day itself a clarioncall to nothing but the indigentwastes of folly, the curlicues of dreamfloating above a second cup of teanext to an open book, clemencyin the air and the clank of steampipes releasing the anchored senseof habitation, pearl-dripping eaves [End Page 567] measuring out time like a metronomeor that partita, its mind-clearing lensradioed in on the pulse of static heavessurging like stormfall on the shore of home. 2 The blizzard shut down the road to schoolbut not our restless chomping at the bitto get on out there and get it built,the snow fort excavated shovelfulby shovelful from a swale of remnant driftuntil, dug in, well armed, we felt it safeto launch our synchronized offensiveon another fort, then await the szzzand whomp of those missiles pelting fastas snowflakes later mixing with the sleeton an unplowed back road, headlightsiced over, the storm an ambuscade of whiteI had to battle through in order to meetthe porchlight on and waiting, home at last. 3 Once more the day’s particulars: the lakea foamy scrub of whitecaps, cloud coverheavy with rain, all afternoon the weatherbattering on, causing the house to shakelike no tomorrow, which in fact is truefor the one who, at the desk and lamp-lit,rides out each hour’s warp and weftof iteration, plummeting what he knewin order to know it again, yet different.Like someone lost in a snowfield, circlingback on his tracks. Like a train shudderingwhen swept by another from where it’s bent.Like a safe harbor in the grinding of a stormfound by a fitful schooner searching for home. [End Page 568] Peter Filkins Peter Filkins professes writing and literature at Bard College at Simon’s Rock. He has written four books of poems and translates the novels of H. G. Adler and the poems of Ingeborg Bachmann. Copyright © 2014 Peter Filkins