Plums she gathers like ampersands,
connects dreams like crochet, &
works the day into intricate patterns
of yarn. Her hair falls in
the sway of her
“ands” & “times” & “yes.” O my
trembling at closed doors,
opening windows to courtyard trees,
greeter of green, survivor of landscapes
where no one ever goes.
It is easy to imagine her like a
ing from her mouth
ing in her needle-pointed h
signing a perfect unheard world
filled with times of scrape & hook,
singing into seasons that flow
with cuttlefish & banana slugs,
where everything is articulate in expanding vowels
dipping into diphthongs &
nothing is buried.
I watch her blink & her eyelids hold the sunlight.
She takes my broken shoulders with her child’s hands
& turns my down into rise, calling my name to tell me we have no more pears, & asking me if tomorrow will bring us rain.