In a soft fold of time,
between the ironing
and the income tax,
I think of Nana's red rose tea.
I see the subtle tremor
of her hands,
the china teacups,
rung with strands
of tiny violets.
I hear the small song
of the silver spoon.
I'd like to think
my thinking of her
might arrive,
that sudden pulse of love,
surprise her at her window
in the way a sparrow, rising
in a breeze,
catches her eye,
the way a neighbor
lifts the ordinary morning
with a wave.
-- Deb Cooper