weathering the storm.

at the tail-end of summer
the air feels wet
with rain that may
or may not come, and i am sitting
in a chair, beside the window
the old rocker
that was my father's,
waiting.

my grandmother always tells me
she can smell the rain
i can feel it in the air, she says
the same way she feels it
in her bones
and i know she thinks of him
my grandfather
especially when it rains
that a part of him falls in every drop.

the air now sharp and crisp
like the white wine
on the end of my tongue. i wonder
how it is that i ended up in this
this place, not palace, thinking
bound to his chair but
not thinking of him.

and i write to you
hoping that it will help
that the kamikaze clouds
will roll back into themselves
that i can pull myself from this chair
that it will not rock again
that it will not rain.