(no subject)

[penguinboy.livejournal.com]

Limen

All day I've listened to the industry
of a single woodpecker, worrying the catalpa tree
just outside my window. Hard at his task,

his body is a hinge, a door knocker
to the cluttered house of memory in which
I can almost see my mother's face.

She is there, again, beyond the tree,
its slender pods and heart-shaped leaves,
hanging wet sheets on the line--each one

a thin white screen between us. So insistent
is this woodpecker, I'm sure he must be
looking for something else--not simply

the beetles and grubs inside, but some other gift
the three might hold. All day he's been at work,
tireless, making the green hearts flutter.

by Natasha Trethewey