Published 08/08/2010 | 05:00
My uncle took his bride
from the portals of an Indian summer
of print dresses and cream ice cream.
Her aunts worked together a patchwork quilt;
her mother's delft -- unbroken for two generations --
went on a clevvy her handyman father made.
My uncle made handiwork of her
home-making, drank to a busy grave.
Now in this Indian summer
she trusts the weather,
washes the quilt,
sits on the terrace, a newspaper,
glasses unsteady on her apron-lap,
watching it dry.