My father’s old shirt—
 
the fragrance of autumn mist
 
lingers on the sleeves.

 
 
 

My father’s old shirt—
 
the fragrance of mountain mist
 
lingers on the sleeves.

 
 
 

The sleeves of my shirt
 
still bear the fragrance of pine
 
from distant mountains.

Sewing

 
 
 

sewing a button
 
on my father’s tattered shirt
 
now that it is mine

Laundry

 
 
 

laundry on the line—
 
west wind snapping one red dress
 
and seven white shirts