Mom used to spin around the stem of our old clothespole,
except as the paint dried at the first stirring of springtime.
Grandpop strung rope from garage roof to porch hook
so grandmom could shake out the clouds of socks and towels.
He built our homestead which still stands after decades—
though he’s long-buried, a hero in our mirrors and frames.
Grandmom used to pin me too to swing from her lines
in the cirrus shapes stretched with the wind flowing flags.
Circling that clothespole in grass dark as pine,
Mother and I, both in our times, scaled the air to touch
the sunshine between us and abundant depths of sky.