The guy in the confederate bandana’s crouched on the
tip of stripped pine
 forty feet up in the air and hollering for his comrades to
swing the rope his way
 while at her kitchen window the old woman waits for the
scent
 of pine to cross the street, her doorjamb, and floor her
as it once did
 when she was once too young to feel any which way but
the one she felt
 for a man he resembles, minus the cloth, sort of swarthy
and sweaty,
 lean, clearly carnal, likable, really, on pine straw,
especially, likable
 and she nearly forgets herself, her stunned foot, the
knots that warp her
 knuckles and spine, her chins, her bottom flat as a
pressed flower
 as she calls out, thankfully, only to the storm window
glass,
 after pouring some tea for him to drink, and the shards
of ice
 disappear in the bottom of the glass that’s got a tiny blue
ring of  
 forget-me-nots painted around its rim forever, or at least
til an estate sale
 when some young couple may buy it to stay delicate
buds from their garden
 and some time later, should they finally conceive, that
boy or girl
 perhaps one afternoon, pulling crayons across paper,
may knock it
 quite by accident, as it will be clear to all who enter the
home, even the little one,
 it is a special vase, and the pieces will be lifted away, the
mother will swoop down
 with a soft cloth to pick the hard edges as the crane
pinches the limbs
 of cut pine stacked by the street now, the sprays of their
needles
 startled as goosebumps, that fragrant herd scratching
her cheeks.