I certainly have nothing to add to that.
I've decided to divide these up into little categories.
The first one will be my childhood.
In an iridescent time, my mother, when young,
scrubbed laundry in a tub.
She and her sisters on an old brick
walk under the apple tree, sweet rub a dub.
The bees came round their heads, the wrens made talk.
Four young ladies, each with a rainbow board,
honed their knuckles, wrung their wrists to red,
tossed back their braids, and wiped their aprons wet.
The Jersey calf beyond the back fence roared,
and all the soft day swarmed about their pet, buzzed
at his big brown eyes and bullish head.
Four times they rinsed, they said.
Some things they starched, then shook them from the basket two
by two, and pinned the fluttering intimacies of life,
between the lilac bushes and the yew, brown gingham, pink,
and skirts of Alice blue.