Beginnings
The weather turns off cold; my instincts go domestic. For days I smell of onion
and homemade pumpkin soup. A woman, everything
comes down to love.
Sewing for my child
I think how even thread Becomes a parent,
stitching up the woolen halves Of cloth into a whole.
Outside the rain is beating
a mat of yellow leaves; I don't believe
in endings.