Spring wanes
and as is her custom
she pulls the dusty
cover from her Singer
and sits at the window
to fashion cotton,
sprigged with tiny
roses, into tiered
summer skirts
for whichever
grandchild wants one.
Time stretches like
the elastic she holds
and I recall a trip
to Rome where,
laughing, we fell
into a church
as raindrops slid
from bare arms.
In a dark side chapel
we clattered coins
into a metal box
and the space lit up
with a yellow glow,
revealing a Caravaggio,
just for us. She said
he has painted the light
and we stood
and marveled.
Then our ninety seconds
of illumination was over
and we stepped back
into lives that were all about
where to next, and
our house will be blue.
Now she is the old
master and as she works
light ripples her clothes
and crowns her head
with cirrus. The rose
fabric is stippled
with thorns and I see
only where the light
falls to make her perfect
and dare not look
to the room’s dark corners.