The willow branches comb the lazy stream
like fingers trailing off a rowboat’s wale.
The tendrils form a bell of shade; they screen
our eyes from summer’s unrelenting flail.
Upstairs clear plastic covers every seat
and corrugated plastic tarps the rugs.
The bowl of fruit is wax that I can’t eat,
and I’ll avoid my grandma’s powdered hugs.

It’s Sunday, and I’m 5 or 6 years old.
We’re visiting my father’s parents’ place.
The stairwell is concrete. It’s dim and cold.
I run ahead. I can’t see Mama’s face,
but I can hear her earrings: carousels
of brassy charms that ring like fairy bells.