You show me the basket your mother made,
The light color of the cane entwined with the dyed scarlet,
All so evenly spaced, and the handle a perfect arch.
You take the basket back to your bedroom,
Then show me a rooster carved from a single piece
Of blackjack oak; the scaly bark of the base and back
And the impossible feathering of the tail make me smile.
When you come and sit beside me, you are holding
Nothing in your hands finally, and they are brown
And warm and one rests on my calf like the end of time.