We bought a house made of mud and straw.
Thieves stole my sewing machine
and my turquoise ring.
They stole your music, and the needle
you lowered with one steady finger.
To lose these things. I learned.
We had a little girl
and I never let her out of my arms.
Summer nights we sat on a moon-striped
back porch. Later I hung out
laundry in the snow, glorious whites.
Clothespins clung to the wire,
a flock of house finches,
breasts to the sun. Like a needle
we rode the world as it spun,
working our way to the center,
song by song.