Above the sink

filled with lemony suds,

my hands swish and sweep

around a dinner plate.

I wash, rinse, put it in the rack.

 

Outside, the red maple stands,

rooted deeply over her domain

of greening grass, lilacs, lavender.

A soft breeze passes from there to here.

I wash, rinse, put it in the rack.

 

A saucer. Interesting how

this simple, yet dreaded task,

picks up its own rhythm—

links outside to inside, outer to inner.

I wash, rinse, put it in the rack.

 

Squeezing the cloth, my Mary-side

in sync with Martha-, dishes

like beads being said

one at a time—more than a decade.

I wash, rinse, put it in the rack.

 

Big mysteries don't get solved,

but quiet answers float atop soapy

solution—inside a simple cup—

while listening on my feet.

I wash, rinse, put it in the rack.

 

 

This poem first appeared in St. Anthony Messenger.

Used here with the author's permission.