Without Words
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My eyes adjust to root cellar darkness—dank walls lined with planks of abandoned jars.
Webs stretch over windowsills where geraniums
pressed pale leaves against minimal light all winter long.
I shake dust from a tattered bag filled with clothespins
and carry it up the sweating stairs to daylight;
My beloved pup, Mustang Sally, waits.
Between clothesline poles tangled in vines,
more wooden pins float in rows, suspended in air.
I hang pillowcases and sheets, forget-me-not-blue;
they melt in cloudless skies.
After Sally scrambles through weeds
that hide butterflies and mice, she naps
in patches of starflowers, bleeding hearts.
Riding bursts of wind, the crisp envelope
tumbles to my feet. Without words—
no address or card inside. I fold this pouch
of nothingness and slide it in my pocket.
