one day,
a long, long time ago

i bought a piece of art
when Trey and I went to an estate
sale on Mass Street.

Chinese, full of cranes
gold and water-filled.
three women, on the porch.
watching the birds as they feed.


a home,
a place to live.


we live in a 100-year-old home.

older, really.

1913, so 105.

the 11 built on stone and ancient orange bricks.
dirt older than anything else.

i hang the picture on the wall.
against
plaster, lathe, patches, mud.

(people rarely buy art, i don't know why)

i heard of a canyon, i walked in the woods.
i know the river, i walk a short-length of it
almost every day.  it reminds me of the ocean.
of the meow.

the orca, the babe in arms.
the black cat, she jumps from
the hayloft.  she carries
the kittens, broken.
and she will not stop.

let's go, back . . .
to forsythia and lilacs,
peonies and tulips.

we live in the time of the cicada,
the monarch, the sedum yet to bloom.

the magic flowers are fading.

one day, a summer day,
i took the painting from the wall.

it is time to paint, soft fog
a whisper, a way to fix the pain.

and the picture, i clean it.
dark, (so dark, i did not know this)
the gold, just beneath the bronze.

i did not know how dirty it was.
time after time after time.
i cleaned it with water
then vinegar
paper towels.

repeat. repeat.
turning white to yellow.
start again.

yellow, brown, piles of dirty things.

always trying for the white.

one day, a few weeks ago,
i hung the picture on
the freshly
(hush)
painted wall.

an aura,
so many shades of white.

the bronze turning to gold.
shine.
the cranes, black and white.
grace in the way they move.

now, when i open the french doors
wide, then wider
this piece of art catches every
ray of light.

SHINE.
shining.
white, gold

cranes come home.

new.