Erica Reid

Weatherman

The biggest mistake a beginner can make

is to collect the wrong things. Rain, clouds,

sun, sure. But weather is a texture that lays

across our days. The way we cough in the haze

of summer wildfires. The laundry that is never

hung to dry before the storm. Not only a warmth

but the smell of the melt. The taste of a mist.

How my sinuses act on a morning like this.

Folks assume you need a bunch of specific tools

for this job, but for the most part I find

simple household items work best. I catch rain

in a bent thimble my wife was throwing out.

I use a measuring tape, same as you’d get

at Home Depot, to scrape the clouds—

the tape reaches tall, then packs up neat.

I sift through snow using an old fitted sheet.

It’s difficult at first, but you learn over time.

Now the line of slim vials on my dining room wall

tells a story of each freeze and thaw, of the depth

of every fog. I’ve gathered the hiss of sleet,

the texture of wind, the crack of the bough when

the lightning split. The exact shimmer of dew

at the day’s first light. The umami of night.

Erica Reid is the author of Ghost Man on Second, winner of the Donald Justice Poetry Prize (Autumn House Press, 2024). Erica’s poems appear in Rattle, Cherry Tree, Colorado Review, and more. ericareidpoet.com