Sun-baked leaves crisp crimson that twirl and turn to flakes of ice as they fall now soften become pink petals settle on shoulders that know nothing but weight Who are you who can bear suffer these changes and stand solid on the Kamo River where rock and weed and fish tumble and sway and refuse to cling even as its waters hesitate to set settle at feet that know nothing of touch Who are you made of stone slow made unmoving ever above flow head toward the mountain looking up searching for source a beginning
WEIGHT WITHOUT GRAVITY
1 There is no weight without gravity. But matter and weight have come To mean the same things: What keeps our feet on the ground, what pulls At clouds to return to sea, why we fear The fall. We have assigned them, too To other things: meaning and burden. Weight no longer belongs to the body. 2 My mother's weight keeps her pinned To this hospital bed, chained By our fears, by all she has to fight. She is her body now more than ever. The pressure of her hand in mine A collection of mere molecules— Matter acted upon by gravity. And I waver at the edge of You and This is not you, I tell her. The weight of our worry pulls the water from her eyes. 3 I do not fear the words dead, weight. The part of my mother I wait to waken Weighs nothing and means all.
Andrea Teran is a climate change adaptation specialist, currently working on climate change-induced (human) migration. Her writing is mostly an expression of her fascination with the natural world, and finding our place in it.