by Skye Shirley
When the neighborhood women
meet for their Wednesday book group
I stand at their sinks and guard
their children sleeping.
As infants they clenched
my smallest fingers and only
ate soft food. Now they read
mysteries by lamplight as I
rinse plates downstairs.
Across the street, my
driveway is plowed.
Snow scatters as I gather
their Lego pieces. I know this
flurry well, and love the tasks,
rituals. I give vitamins, brush teeth,
unfold pajamas, light the dark.
And downstairs load
the dishwasher and sit
on the old loveseat.
The skylight is blanketed
with snow: don’t you
marvel at this bliss?
Even the cold yearns
to touch me.
Skye Shirley checks this forecast before the weather forecast.
When the neighborhood women
meet for their Wednesday book group
I stand at their sinks and guard
their children sleeping.
As infants they clenched
my smallest fingers and only
ate soft food. Now they read
mysteries by lamplight as I
rinse plates downstairs.
Across the street, my
driveway is plowed.
Snow scatters as I gather
their Lego pieces. I know this
flurry well, and love the tasks,
rituals. I give vitamins, brush teeth,
unfold pajamas, light the dark.
And downstairs load
the dishwasher and sit
on the old loveseat.
The skylight is blanketed
with snow: don’t you
marvel at this bliss?
Even the cold yearns
to touch me.
Skye Shirley checks this forecast before the weather forecast.

