My grandma always knew
when one of those sly Kansas storms
was gathering out west of Inman.
Before the ocean sky darkened
or the prairie bent under the wind’s hand,
she’d sit in our rocker with her Bible,
mouthing Proverb’s cries against fools.
I never did learn to predict the weather like Grandma.
I had to wait to see the clouds
pass over your Kansas sky eyes
and smell the sour rain
rolling off your breath,
-Already too late to run for the cellar.
And then the storm screams around me
and the wind pushes,
and the dogs hide,
and a dish breaks,
and the house shakes,
and the neighbors sit
at their dining room table,
serving sausage and fresh bread
and talking about their day.
Their grandma didn’t teach them to see storms either.