Bright spring sun
on our bleached
I see the
through the glass.
An early rain,
the sun is out
then in, then
out again.
Cumulus clouds
rustling around a sky
the color of
that spring I lay
in the back yard
making a clover
Something my aunt
showed me,
which captivated
my imagination.
I don’t know
what else
happened that spring.
If my cousin
came for Easter or not,
he probably did.
The years before
he died
I tried
to get him
to reinstate
the custom.
But he never did,
I only saw him
once when we
were grown up,
in his San Francisco
with orchid’s growing
in the bay window.
He showed me
his collection
of Fiesta ware,
the photos
he had
of our mothers
as little girls.

(stanza break) He took the other
photos down
and banished
his companion
for the week-end,
an unnecessary act.
We sat in some chic bar
and he said
he never could
have become
before his mother
for some reason
it didn’t hit me
at the time
what he meant.