In the minutes after our spent hours  
We conceive ourselves some recreation,  
The perpetuation of busy organization,  
The remembering of moons and lavender,  
The piecing together of past prints and ginghams.  
We rock and reach into our bags of knitting,  
We wind our yarn to defend our joints and hearts  
From the changing weather and the more seldom letters.  

Now it occurs to me,  
What was it my father used to say,  
Sealed into his chair for the morning by an afghan?  
His words fell on my ears and fell away.  

But now, watching my spring bulbs  
Blooming again after all these years  
Multiplied from one sparse bed to rows and rows  
And crowded after all--  
My fears begin to move a little in the evening cool.  
I sense his bent old shoulders  
And the child's mouth,  
Repeating his life in broken mumbles  
Day after closing day.