From the Bathroom Window

The old hose ran through it like a river
creasing the meadow grass of the back back yard
blooming wheat weed like last year’s candles
and a butterfly took root on the smallest pale flower
weaving light into the movement of air.

I am little and climb on the clothes hamper
to see the acacia tree
for it is spring from the bathroom window
and the yellow is like a smudge of joy
caught within the plum’s prolific fragrance  
and I clamor for the time of bare feet.

Flutter flap the sheets are sunning
and mother is a flowered skirt that twirls
although I don’t think she did really
except only in my gypsy feelings from this high place
looking down on her arms bare then and brown
a clothespin in her teeth and the wind her sail.

Was safely far upstairs hanging out there
as if I could see secrets
little dart of blond brother grim with starched legs
and some old dusty car with running board
posing there on the oil slick of the driveway.

It is so like a photo
what I've captured here in mind
from perhaps a Sunday of a long ago April
where the creak of the porch swing
the steady rhythm of it like time itself
is following me or has stopped long enough
for the click of the shutter.