Washing up

After we wiped down the length
of where we sat to eat at the table,

we took the stack of dishes to wash
at the “dirty kitchen,” a sink

set into a cement counter out in the yard.
Under moonlight, it was pleasant to talk

and make soapy circles on the melamine plates
then rinse them. Trickle of water from the tap;

or, dunk them all in a larger basin filled
with rainwater. Under the honeysuckle vines

the rest of the world then seemed something
that could still be kept at bay. Who knows

when it turned, or how long the watchful trees
continued to take tally as we carried damp

kitchen towels and armfuls of clean circles
back into the house, ready for use once again?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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