It is the stitch made of sky
that travels over each patient
hill, it is the hem made of wet
colours let loose, it is the fold
made of birds as light as a leaf
we comb the garden for the wishing
tree and catch a birth, a death, a gift
for our eyes, for we are counting the wings
and clouds, we are on our feet and calling
the fartherest marble thread, a pure pale thing
how we love to reach with arms outstretched
the yesterdays wild and humble in that trampled
distance, my sister and I disturbing the dust on
the old photographs as if a single day sluices the
long hot summer afternoons and we sit curved in
the apple tree our hearts beating beneath our make-
    believe glitter singing for the universe in our cotton dresses.