The swallow forces

her nest fast as a root

on Aunt Faye’s kitchen window ledge.

Straw sticks through

the frame she won’t clean

up after. Let the tiny fibers flag

from their stems, let

traces of her husband’s fields

dust faucets and porcelain, let her

sewing wait. Aunt Faye’s

learning joy, the swallow’s clinical

grace, as she leans into the cross and promise

of her sink remembering

how her mother’s lips unpinched

when the first swallow flew summer in.