Plums she gathers like ampersands,

connects dreams like crochet, &

still, she—

watch her—

works the day into intricate patterns

of yarn.  Her hair falls in

the sway of her

“ands” & “times” & “yes.”  O my

                                                                                             storyteller mystic

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

thoughtful octopus,

ink ribbon-

ing from her mouth

pen twist-

ing in her needle-pointed h

            ands &

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.