by Terry House, from the chapbook Refuge:

Catalpa, June

Summer rain sets them waltzing, white blooms, white skirts, white
spinning into brilliantine, white upon blue, the blue of childhood,
the blue of eyes, my grandmother’s eyes, storm blue, those eyes that saw
the century before last mince and knew these

Belled blossoms floating toward the ground. Knew debutantes
dancing until dawn. Knew wind-snatched veils, knew stumbling
brides, knew empty sheaths of silk shantung; knew suffragettes,
knew shirtwaist girls jumping to their deaths; knew metaphors can be

Flowers, too: Both this and that, both then and now
both lineage and canopy; Knew refuge always is an act of hope;
knew refuge sometimes is just catalpa tree.

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