Dinner Plates

Dinner Plates

Every night, while I watch,
she stacks the dirty dinner plates:
carefully, habitually,
with the grace of a woman
who has learned to love herself.

Intentionally, methodically,
cleaning dishes at the sink,
she is at her most beautiful.
This is her nightly rhythm.

The dishwasher is always off
because she needs to feel
the running water on arthritic hands.

Our kitchen window faces the field.
The colors paint her in tired shades:
First pink, then red, then purple.
Peepers chirp in appreciation
at this time, every spring.

The soap still holds to her,
below the elbow, and lingers
on her forearm, above
three silver bracelets
I gave her in Amsterdam.

When she sleeps tonight,
with one hand behind,
the other on my chest,
I will smell the soap on her skin,
and sleep the better for it.

In the morning, after coffee, and watching
chickadees peck at the empty feeder,
she touches my earlobe twice.
Her hands are warm
from the ceramic mug.

After years of dinners, stacks of dishes,
and rolled up sleeves, I see
that hands are just for holding things,
but something more has settled here
to make of this, a life,

and the moon in her perfect circle,
is just a luminous plate
suspended in the sky.