Searching for pillowcases trimmed <br />with lace that my mother-in-law <br />once made, I open the chest of drawers <br />upstairs to find that mice <br />have chewed the blue and white linen <br />dishtowels to make their nest, <br />and bedded themselves <br />among embroidered dresser scarves <br />and fingertip towels. <br /> <br /> <br />Tufts of fibers, droppings like black <br />caraway seeds, and the stains of birth <br />and afterbirth give off the strong <br />unforgettable attar of mouse <br />that permeates an old farmhouse <br />on humid summer days. <br /> <br /> <br />A couple of hickory nuts <br />roll around as I lift out <br />the linens, while a hail of black <br />sunflower shells <br />falls on the pillowcases, <br />yellow with age, but intact. <br />I’ll bleach them and hang them in the sun <br />to dry. There’s almost no one left <br />who knows how to crochet lace.... <br /> <br /> <br />The bright-eyed squatters are not here. <br />They’ve scuttled out to the fields <br />for summer, as they scuttled in <br />for winter—along the wall, from chair <br />to skirted chair, making themselves <br />flat and scarce while the cat <br />dozed with her paws in the air, <br />and we read the mail <br />or evening paper, unaware.<br /><br />Jane Kenyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-here-12/
