For Phyllis Janowitz

The swallow forces
her nest fast as a root
on Aunt Faye's kitchen window ledge.

Straw sticks through
the frame she won't clean
up after. Let the tiny fibers flag

from their stems, let
traces of her husband's fields
dust faucets and porcelain, let her

sewing wait. Aunt Faye's
learning joy, the swallow's clinical
grace, as she leans into the cross and promise

of her sink remembering
how her mother's lips unpinched
when the first swallow flew summer in.