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Stone Porch



Perch
                                                for my mother

 Here the vine grows eight feet
a minute our hostess winks
twining one stray shoot
back onto another at the mother frame
The left side of her face
stilled by a stroke

These green lithe limbs resemble
grape stems     the sky goes
rose   we hear every
punctuation     mark every trill
mourning doves       the rub of
wings against the dusk
just out of sight
goats caw                        then further
rising flotilla of 


fenced-in puppies    

Our feet loosed from their shoes      
rest on one white wicker ottoman

in front                occasionally            a car

inside          a telephone

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