Doing Laundry on Sunday

So this is the Sabbath, the stillness
in the garden, magnolia
bells drying damp petticoats


over the porch rail, while bicycle
wheels thrum and the full-breasted tulips
open their pink blouses


for the hands that pressed them first
as bulbs into the earth.
Bread, too, cools on the sill,


and finches scatter bees
by the Shell Station where a boy
in blue denim watches oil


spread in phosphorescent scarves
over the cement. He dips
his brush into a bucket and begins


to scrub, making slow circles
and stopping to splash water on the children
who, hours before it opens,


juggle bean bags outside Gantsy’s
Ice Cream Parlor,
while they wait for color to drench their tongues,


as I wait for water to bloom
behind me—white foam, as of magnolias,
as of green and yellow


birds bathing in leaves—wait,
as always, for the day, like bread, to rise
and, with movement


imperceptible, accomplish everything.