I remember these days when they come,
sometime on the edge of summer
and not so interested in its arduous work--
wheat labors up under hot sun somewhere else.
The whole sky's now the warm white of a sink.
From a nearby window, the clink and clatter
of dishes being dried and stacked out of sight.
Each pot hung here's delighted with its place.
Curtains rise gently as a sleeper's chest.
The sweep of the clock's second hand is smoother.
I saw an afternoon like this one first
from eyes at the level of a cupboard door.
The same even light borne like a brimming glass.
As the spoon stirred, it made the pitcher ring
and filled the room with smells of lemonade.
My mother made our lives above me with her hands.
Noon's harsh bustle has receded like surf.
Things seen reach deeper in me, taking rest.
Each bone in my body had forgotten how it feels:
the ceaseless movement of unbroken calm.
New York, Spring 1979