He Likes Folding

A Poem by Adrie Rose

He likes folding
paper, the precision
Of the line, the crisp shape folding
And unfolding in his hands,
The flight of wings in air or
The box that fits in his palm.
The older child wants
to do my makeup
Though no one will see it,
The soft brush of fingers
On my eyelids, the delicate drawing
Of one black line across my lid.
I wake and pull on clothes, kiss them
And leave to walk by the river,
Through the mud, I could not
Tell you the reasons why,
Though there is a whole bank of catnip
Renewed after the winter, though
The knotweed pushes its fingers up again,
And the trout lily returns.

April 2020