She counts-off nineteen steps to the porch,
crosses the threshold to plunge into a pool of April sun
planing through the picture window. She feels
its warm gold on her thighs. From the voices she knows
so well, she hears nuanced tones of their pleasure and pride.
They coach her to angle the lens to highlight
the red rocker, pie safe, son’s self-portrait. The bound
to the back door and courtyard with blue jays sassing in
the sugar maple.
She weathervanes north south east west considers
where to hang a hammock. Back inside, she trails
the chair rail
to the entry, curtsies her goodbyes, unfolds
a white cane to tap her way to the mailbox.
Page 18, An Eclipse and the Butcher