RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—September 4

Sometimes, my mother stood

in the gap

between the counter and the cabinets,

pulling the sun-dried laundry

in through the window.

The pulley and the clothesline

chirped like the birds in our fold.

Before my double-paned glass,

I face a wider scene.

But, high above the telephone poles,

the trees, the pools,

and the flat tops of roofs,

I hear no birdsong.

I see my mother rolling dough for a pie,

standing at the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand,

and through the chaos of five kids,

surviving the wild years.

In defense against the siege,

she implored the Lord,

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