Little Bits

Like a cat, when the evenings lengthen,
leaves its coat inside to walk beneath
the chirping air, like a crowd after
the encore, fraying at the edges,
trickles on home, like a winter cloud
scattering down the sky to make
a pink-cheeked child’s Vitruvian canvas, 

my mother drops little bits of herself
wherever she goes. A cell phone sitting
on the barn-board glass cabinet
because it’s not, like her watch, tied
to her wrist. A mask imperfectly folded,
black on the windowsill below the corn
that wrinkles Arden’s front field. An entire 

case of Canada Dry tonic water, brought
for two to mix with gin and marvel
at Colm Feore’s incandescent villainy
as Shakespeare’s limping king, yellowing
now in my kitchen cupboard. The history
she keeps in her like a white latticed
wedding album, pictures slipping 

from worn frames. A tumbling harvest 
of schemes, inexhaustibly abundant,
we daily sort through, wondering, chuckling. 
And always joy, reaching out like ripples
in crested echoing running rings,
when a stone moves just right across 
a backyard pond, forgetting how to sink.