This bird, its orange
fastened to the tree,
sharpens my need for departure.
The sun was left hanging--
a shred, a feather,
where formal flowers perfumed the soil.
Nostalgia loads the lines.
Here, a shirt tail, there a sweater.
Remember the contraption Mother used
to hang out her washing,
the gears and swivels she used to reel it in?
We were girls then. Our hair hung
heavily over our shoulders.
We sat Indian fashion,
tried to hide our faces from the others.
