Tugging out a portion of yarn when the strands

she paired entangled,     two blending tones –

a dusk hour hovering     over the glassy river,

smoothing the blotting     shadows that crept

from the banks,     lights coming on

in the hillside houses,     that hue and the other

a mid-afternoon     in the woods on the slope

at the end of the street,     look, we’ll say

then, marveling how everything     is radiant –

facets she pulled him     a long, ragged shawl,

the forest stretching     beyond sight in the window

behind her,     a pair of scissors at her side,

her breaths taken     quick and shallow

as I watched from     a corner chair, rendered

anonymous knot by knot     when she said she was

confused and forgot     where she was going

and how long she’d have     before she’d need to pull

the shawl off her needles     and tie off

the whole thing, and then     in a way she did

when she asked me, what is your first name? –

only son, first born, Larry     not at hand until

we hugged goodbye     on my last day and she

moaned, oh, honey – oh,     oh – already, as it all

came back, my mother,     losing me as she had

always to a far-off place     when she leaned into me

as light as a wicker basket     in my arms.