CERTAIN SYMMETRY

History steps forward to greet me with her cane
parts a yellow curtain
gives me her hand, welcomes me to her home.
The wood is true to its grain.

The heavy parlor doors are opened
the floor is stained by the glass
the mantlepiece cluttered with brass
the mirror gives me back my face -

as a child who carried in the corn
from her garden, from my past
around the corner. Youthful enthusiast
I ascend to the second story.

I am to be the chatelaine
in charge of these rooms crowded with grief,
to sweep them clean.
The branches of the apple tree brush the pane.