I taught myself the finer stiches
of sewing
on a white and grey shirt
I have had for twenty years
that still makes
a young woman out of me
on the porch
on a ninety-degree night
in May
when I am almost forty
and washing off the years
or trying to
when everything around me
is young and bursting
with energy,
including the clouds
(Only vapor, yet somehow
moving
faster than me)
The Carolina wrens
are young, so full of promise
and song
Flit away, flit away!
I sew the cotton
layers methodically
and tomorrow is field day
for my obsolete school
I will run with my kids
in another shirt
(a lime green one
made of spandex
from a race we ran
on Saturday)
Not everything
is a recycled dream
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