We knew you’d be electric. The air was pregnant with pause.
We rocked and waited, sweating through the summer,
thought the thunder too far or not coming.
White-laced clouds gathered and we counted down
rumbles and rain, the rising and the cresting and
the dissipating pain. We didn’t know your weight
could dislodge, trace from arms to brain, veins constricting
until lightning made us learn to walk again.
Six weeks ‘til our smiles could rise to even.
Melissa Weaver lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia, where she manages to tend to a steady husband, three small children, an unruly backyard garden and occasionally, a poem or two. A former English and ELL teacher, she seeks to be deeply rooted in her neighborhood, building relationships with kids and families who have come from all over the world. Her work has appeared in Mothers Always Write, The Christian Century, Anabaptist Witness, The Anabaptist Journal of Australia and New Zealand, and Transforming, a publication of Virginia Mennonite Missions.