An affectionate homage in which I imagine the celebrated nature poet and ascetic lost in the weeds of early motherhood.

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1.

consider the lego brick
mute, neat, yearning

six proud buds eagerly seeking
the docking click of another’s inward efflorescence
the greasy kiss of small fingers

now biding low, hiding its teeth
now sinking rapturously into heel flesh –
a blue-aired shriek

—

2.

awoken before dawn:
the harsh, insistent cry of the garbage truck

this vehicle
is reversing
in just the same way I retrace my steps
to broken bags of regret

pressing the slippery lid to lip of sippy cup

• too quick, the click –
  a dewy spurt assails my eye

wake up, wake up

—

3.

A huddle of lone socks
wistful as stars at dawn

each bib a tiny Turin shroud
vegetable-dyed
carrot, beetroot, tomato

how will the world forget these hours
bent like a willow over warm heaps of cotton
all my brave days and bright nights dissolved behind me

and all my life I have been a washerwoman of small things.