Tavik Frantisek Simon, "Weather House," 1917-18
The humidity rises as the clouds lower themselves onto the hills, kissing our eyelashes with dew. It’s difficult to see much past arm’s length now, easier to sit and wait. Fog, dampening sounds except for my nervous chatter about folk art weather houses, arguing with myself about which hair to use at the heart of the hygrometer. You and I, within the low thick clouds, have become invisible to one another, hidden; but still hands will find hands, pass gifts. A strand of fine hair to set tension on a hygrometer’s balance beam; two figurines for a weather house; a reassurance spelled in touch that the fog will lift.