The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone of gray unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky.
And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm.
Weather abroad and weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction. -Adrienne Rich