Yarmouth

This one is on my left, that one is on my right, the little one
is straight ahead. I am balancing
plates on dowels.  Singing in the dark, I walk
the room and remember
what I can.  All that stays, all these years
later, are warm outlines under blankets and the shadow
of toys and mess.  Then it was a mother singing
about surrender and children
falling into dreamland, carried by her voice.  Now it is nothing
but a distant memory, something woven into forever, a note
hanging in eternity, a little forehead
brushed by loving hands, a door closed goodnight.