The Dishes

There is a window 

over the sink

that holds

a hundred years 

of nights.

In the winter I see

the neighbor’s windows 

glowing through 

black branches.

In the summer

there is a green cloud

of leaves cascading upward

with fireflies weaving 

their golden threads

in the leaves.

Thunderstorms 

and cicadas 
singing.

Laughter and 

hidden sadness 

in the unwashed
dishes.

I see myself 

from outside

in the dark.

There I am 

in the glowing

rectangle

head down

moving slowly.

I have been 

blessed with 

so many meals

from loving hands.

Now I send 

them back out

into the world

the way my grandmothers

and my mother did.

Each fork and glass.

One at a time.

Some nights 

impossible to lift.

The stars 
looking down

as they drift 

and burn.

Oh yes.

The burning.

Everything 
is changing.

How do I keep

forgetting that?

And the others

who stood 

in this place

and the ones

who will stand

here after.

I have not

been writing 
much because 
love has 
asked me 

for other things.

Still 
in the small 

hours when 

the day is done

or before 

it begins

my hands move 

as they have 

ever since 
I can remember.

.