Henry told us later that every time he came out of the house, he would look up to the barn and he would ‘read’ the weather. And I am sure he did so with great accuracy, born of a lifetime of doing so. When I got up this morning the sky in the east was red with weather changing cloud patterns. I’ve learned a little, like “red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.” For some reason the title of a Madleine L’Engle’s book came to my mind, The Weather of the Heart. The line is from her poem “To a Long-Loved Love,” a poem dedicated to her husband. It’s a poem about knowing and yet not knowing. She finds it frustrating that she has knowledge of a great deal but not the weather of the heart.
Like reading the weather from a weather vane, it comes of long loving and long knowing, somehow always mysterious and unknowable and yet very real, and grounded in reality.
We, who have seen the new moon grow old together,
Who have seen winter rime the fields and stones
As though it would claim earth and water forever,
We who have known the touch of flesh and the shape of bones
Know the old moon stretching its shadows across a whitened field
More beautiful than spring with all its spate of blooms;
What passion knowledge of tried flesh still yields,
What joy and comfort these familiar rooms.
In the moonless, lampless dark now of this bed
My body knows each line and curve of yours;
My fingers know the shape of limb and head:
As pure as mathematics ecstasy endures.
Blinded by night and love we share our passion,
Certain of burning flesh, of living bone:
So feels the sculptor in the moment of creation
Moving his hands across the uncut stone.
I know why a star gives light
Shining quietly in the night;
Arithmetic helps me unravel
The hours and years this light must travel
To penetrate our atmosphere.
I can count the craters on the moon
With telescopes to make them clear.
With delicate instruments I can measure
The secrets of barometric pressure.
And therefore I find it inexpressibly queer
That with my own soul I am out of tune,
And that I have not stumbled on the art
Of forecasting the weather of the heart.