WEBVTT

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One more.

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Keats thought his heart too
small to hold its blood.

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I'm reading his
letters at the kitchen

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table, where a window hangs
the pepper tree in the room.

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What's outside, alive and
moving in a summer wind--

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contained, yet threatening
to break the frame.

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My mother at 87, quavery
of voice and limb,

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filled an afternoon with small
stories of all the people who

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kept her household working--

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gardener, handyman, a
girl to hang the curtains.

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When, suddenly-- could you
remind me how to multiply

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fractions--

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a shy leaf of a
question that can

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threaten the frame of
a life, the task we

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sat down to work on.

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