Wilbur unrolled white French sateen
cut on the bias for strength, lined
with fifteen narrow pockets for the ash ribs.
He borrowed my sewing machine,
shortened his cloth to match the white pine spars.
We came down here for wind and sand,
and we have got them, said Orville.
Everything from dead calm to a whole gale.
In twelve attempts one day, Wilbur spent
barely two minutes in the air. Late October,
the weather turned. Discarding the glider,
he promised to return next summer
with a new machine. So, he told us,
salvage anything you want. I stayed up late
running the treadle, stitching Sunday dresses
for Irene and Pauline. They shimmered
when they wore those wings. The ribs and spars
their father fed to the fire that winter.