Giving The Maple Its Leaves

"You'll paint like me one day"
she tells me
but I know I won't,
the colors she mixes
in her little white bowls
on the kitchen table
come from fields of abalone
the peeling wooden boat
listing on weeds and shells
a young maple pushing between boards,
wasp nests in the cabin.

She stands on deck
bees dancing around her.
Unlike me,
she isn't afraid
to touch the things she paints
to let them have her.

On this cool Autumn morning
she adds a brushful of red
to her cup of yellow
giving the nail its rust
and the maple its leaves.








The Seventh Strand

For Catherine

Every sixth strand is a shiny one,
I am pulled to make it the seventh
but Ingrid says no, seven is bad luck,
my wedding day being an even number
and the tides at low ebb.

I had wanted the gold, but settled for copper,
the color of old men's teeth and empty snail shells
sliding on the loom between flat blue bars,
Ingrid sprinkling water, blessing the weave of my veil.

She asks me my vow, I recite the verse
that gods love to hear,
I sing about him, listening and eating grapes,
distracting Ingrid long enough
to slip in the seventh strand.

I will be forgiven, I know
shine is a thing all eyes seek,
along with number, a row of apples.
Playing under a willow's arms,
counting the raindrops on satin.

When I feed him from the wedding platter
I will hold back the meat in my fingers,
making him lean ever forward, falling from the couch,
the servants giggling and calling me a woman.

He will fold back my veil
as from a jewel wrapped and kept in a box,
see my face for the first time
and Ingrid says, he will love me.








Song Of The Staircase

Sweat has shined these rails
hand-width, twisting banisters
an old,sway-backed horse
boards moaning under foot
each step a note
in the song of the staircase.

A picture on the right
framed in tooled cherry
each night I bend and look
hoping to catch the grin
behind the pursed lips
of an unsmiling ancestor
knowing she must have run
falling into high grass
with a handsome boy
pulling at her buttons.

Finding the rough
my finger catches the letter
"M" for markus
watching through the bars
wide-eyed at forbidden words
yelled from the library
oaths drowned in kisses
and then, the world
stood on two feet again.

Wood remembers
singing the old songs
keeping the rhythm
I sit on the top stair
humming along
until your warm touch
and whispered breath
call me to rest.