RUDE WEATHER
Cynthia Hardy
1. The weather changes
and changes again—
just when our skin
has opened its pores
to heat & tanned
from wildfire smoke--
rain
2. Rain softens
the profile of mountains,
blurs the day so
that everything’s
as in a dream—
birds flit through
the overhang
of eaves—delphiniums
droop—the greenhouse
drowses
3. In a drowse, I
hear the news—some
tragedy in a place
where the air overheats
and neighbors pass
with rude stares. I
nestle the cat. I
do not call my
neighbor to ask
how her tomatoes
grow
4. Tomatoes form
a wall of green at
the back of
the greenhouse—
the dark
and jagged leaves
hiding yellow
blossoms, thumb-
sized fruits. A dragon-
fly beats against
the translucent roof
5. A dragonfly
lands on my
knuckle—a skeleton
of black chiton—wings
iridescent paddles,
mandibles moving,
slowly chewing
a yellow
striped sweat bee
6. The bees are silent.
The neighbor’s hive
has swarmed—the gray
sky and rain damps
down their buzziness.
I long
for a finger full of
fireweed honey—so
light and clear and
nectar-sweet.
This poem was written as a response to a challenge I gave my poetry students: moving from one image to another, letting the poem drift. It was a poem I could have just tossed away, but didn’t. Perhaps that’s the breakthrough—or that, in its own loose way, this poem represents an attempt to add order to my usual unstructured process.
CINDY HARDY writes from Chena Ridge, Fairbanks, Alaska. She has published poetry and fiction, and was the 2025 recipient of the Alaska Literary Award. Cindy teaches occasionally, rides horses, and gardens all summer.