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