She covets little pins,

little pins everywhere,

inside an old angora sweater

line the feathers of birds:

Herring gull,

Elegant tern,

Least sandpiper,

bits of receipts for ancho chiles and

ground cumin,

the notes of a lost panpipe

and drops of pisco from the old country.

The air conditioning blasts

a stale, rank sameness while

across lifetimes and valleys,

the snow melts

her soft, open thaw,

an old man loses his shuffle,

the wheels on the chair locked

like his frozen gaze,

no peripheral vision,

no lost Sinatra or old standards,

just a quiet hum of gums,

a num, num, num

of recognition.

***