Quiet Art
for my mother

We are joined by ink and glue
on the hands.
Dabbed with ceremony.

Our long fingers lift and frame.
We close an eye
and the picture plane flattens,

lets a single form rise.

Now in bent-neck light, we live
in the birdhouse. In its dangle.
We are quiet. The birdhouse

sways, and from our room,

appears as a golden door
inside the trees.