Soap foams like spume on waves
sloshing toward shore. And the water
is warm as I wipe each dish and fork
like the sea wipes its sand-caked brow.
Summer is over. My kids sit at the table,
doing their homework. My husband
outside, his tractor chugging
as he whittles away his work,
cutting square after shrinking square
into our lawn. Clouds crowd the blue
in the September sky, squeezing
the sun into one long beam
leaning like a ladder against our house,
stretching through my window.
I sense the cold feet
of winter on the top rung,
heading down. But the water is warm
as it spills from the spigot like light.
My hands clinging to the cup
that now runs over.