The morning clouds in valley, still,
rain over the mountain peaks.
A dead fox roadside and crows gather
home, like my dead: clung to me as
this wet wool, damp from garden run.
This has happened before; on the hall
table: the flower vase, new again–
which holds whatever is placed within
it with equal, tender balance.
Yet I cannot help but see womb;
see mother: cream and bottom heavy, berthed
in place, at the stations of the house:
stove, sink, washroom, judge of content
and by content. Mother: standing with arms
outstretched, our sheets on the linen line
bleached, sun-fresh and winding.