"the cuckoo flies over time", Grace Marie Grafton

The spectacles for flight make the contrast between vestibule

and boudoir.


Cluster of crystal beads – they are heirlooms too.


Pendulum has swung in her direction and this time she could see it.


Wasn’t all that fancy, not even the bramble bushes that protected Sleeping Beauty.


No kings, no princes, no Sphinx’s riddle to scramble the horizon.


Simply the lyric sash untied, the accepting glance where floors

are fir instead of hardwood.


Prairie rolls out of the living room, willows occupy the creek banks,

conjured encampments left over from Yokut days.


She steps away from stagnant fixtures and spells, castle walls, servants’ quarters that divide sight into past, present, yet-to-come.


Here: her arm, her muslin blouse.