And so just sort of staying with the winter,
I guess, a two-song winter, from the book
that the students in the class are reading,
I want to read the title piece, "The Place Where
Clouds are Formed."
And this, too, I see it includes winter, of course, and then
summer, and then back to winter again,
and then some things I think that are
sort of imaginary about our environment
that I just made up as my own story.
I want to just explain, the third piece in this poem
includes some individuals.
And this is actually based on actual events in my family,
and it includes my father and two of my younger sisters.
And my father was a very quiet man and a very stern man,
but he always surprised us in his own way
with his gentleness, especially to his children.
And so one of the ways that we saw this expression was
that on a very cold--
because sometimes it can get very, very cold
when it's raining and wet and the wind is blowing,
and you're little girls and you have to walk about 1/4
of a mile to the highway, and stand there and wait
for the school bus at 7:15 in the morning when it's still
dark.
And so my father, who would have been out at work by 4:00 AM,
he would feel something for us, I guess,
and tell us that we could sit in his truck
and wait for the school bus.
And the cab of his truck would be so warm
because the heater would have been
running for quite some time.
So that's how this piece ends, with my father and us--
well, me and my two sisters.
And I never remember about my brothers.
I think it's one of those things.
[LAUGHTER]
Brothers, they have to stand out in the rain and pretend it
doesn't bother them.
[LAUGHTER]
And I think my father knew that, and didn't invite them in.
[LAUGHTER]
So that's that piece, the reference there.
Anyway, "The Place Where Clouds are Formed."
"Every day, it is the same.
He comes home.
He tells her about it.
As he speaks, his breath condenses in front of his face.
She goes about her business.
Every now and then, she looks over.
She doesn't hear his voice.
She sees the soft fog that continues to form a halo.
She knows he is still talking about that place.
He never tires of it like she does.
Only on summer days, when the air is hot
and moisture is still a long time in coming,
she asks him to tell her about that place.
She sits facing him, waiting for the first vocalics, non-stop,
the push of air from his lips.
He tells her of the place where clouds are formed.
The cool dampness of his voice is rich.
Even on a dry June day, her face beads with wetness
as he talks directly to her, each
aspirated sound a gentle burst of coolness.
'Tell me again.
Tell me again,' she teases.
If he knew she only wanted relief
from the heat and not the story, he would stop talking.
He begins.
The first time I saw the place were clouds are formed
was from the window of a train.
Another time was in a mirage in the heat outside of Tucson.
Once he thought he saw it in the dry light of stars.
The place he remembers best was when
he saw it in the eyes of a woman he spoke to,
when he first noticed that she hid it by lowering her gaze.
Soon, she let him look freely.
There were times when she opened her eyes wide,
allowing an obscured view.
Sometimes she saw her eyes smolder with dryness
on a summer day.
Other times, she was rich with moisture.
Clouds came in succession, the earth shadows muted.
'You know in 40 days and 40 nights, I was there.
I'll be there when it happens again,' she said,
with a slight smile.
Like a child, he rushed to look into her eyes
at every opportunity.
If he could, he would hang on her eye socket,
peering inside, marveling at her display."
Part two.
"An unusually cold December day, right around Christmas, clouds,
mist, find solace in the canyons of the Santa Catalina
mountains, white moisture quietly moving amid the cactus.
Truly, clouds, wind, and rain are the few elements
that can touch the saguaro from head
to foot, oblivious of spines and needles.
Rubbery hide surrounded, soothed by elements.
Contact triggers stored heat of remembered summer.
Moisture's bead rolled forward, unstoppable.
From the city below, we see mist rising, mist rising."
Part three.
"We sit close in the cab of the truck.
The weather is cold, wet outside, too messy
to stand in waiting for a school bus.
My father's truck is warm inside,
having been at work since 4:00 AM.
The sound of the engine is soothing,
heater working to capacity.
Inside the cab, we are silent.
We don't need language.
We listen to the regular hum of the engine.
We listen to the regular hum of the engine, rhythm
of the windshield wipers, soft rain on the hood,
aware of the cold air surrounding
our temporary shelter.
We look out over the fields where
the fog clings to the soil.
Every now and then, with the back of his gloved hand,
he wipes the windshield.
'Is it coming yet?'
The three of us sit quietly, breathing clouds.
Clouds condense as they contact the coolness of the windows.
My father appears to breathe air with temperature in balance.
He forms no clouds.
He watches us.
We continue to breathe gray, soft mist, waiting
for the school bus."