Weather this calm wants to write something,
The late afternoon breeze in the trees
Quieter than a quill on vellum. Let’s see.
What letters now are self-inscribing?
A story, a neighborhood version: a woman
Told it at a microphone to a little crowd
Of children, progenitors, and guardians
Gathered for a fundraiser this morning,
Including an Easter egg hunt. There was
A temperate hot spring, here on the hill,
Where indigenous people gathered to winter
Uncounted centuries. Settlers surrounded it,
Built a half-century’s worth of bath houses,
And then, at last, this grand pre-cast palace,
Warm Springs, about a hundred years ago.
It thrived decades, then became unprofitable
And was converted into a Children’s Museum.
For the past thirty years, only the model
Railroad society has continually used it,
Occupying the basement floor. The goal,
Of the event was to restore the building
To its former grandeur, a place of pools
And socializing, in a world where warm water
Is easily produced and heavy freeway traffic
Rumbles by the old wintering grounds.
The story finished. People mean well.
The building was perhaps handsomer
In its desuetude than it would ever be again,
The sun this morning of the harrowing
Etching the exquisite shreds and layers
Of tan paint, cracked cement, flaking stucco,
And peeling boards. Parchment. Put down the pen.
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