Washing Windows - Allen Helmstetter

It was a yellow-leaved day
with a crystalline sky and brisk breeze
when we washed the upstairs windows—
my mother and I—she in the bedrooms inside,
I perched outside on the roof of the porch.

I glanced at her as I gathered my rags;
her face looked pale through the pane,
even after a summer of hot gardening.
But when I caught my own round reflection,
it was an even paler moon to her wan sun.

We worked, then, at this transparent sheen
that kept a thin space between our palms.
Our fingers did not touch passing over.
My pungent vinegar-water mix wept
down the panes in rivulets of prairie dust.

She glanced at me, too, pointing to streaks
that left disfigured shadows here and there.
I knew only that she saw, and only I could erase,
destroying what discomfited her, letting the sun
pass perfectly through the pane to touch her hair.

Originally published by North Coast Review: Literary Magazine for the Upper Midwest, a Poetry Harbor Publication

Allen Helmstetter lives in rural Minnesota. He loves the rivers, woods, and fields there, and after hiking the trails is often inspired to write about the relationships between nature, technology, and the human condition. He has been published in North Coast Review and forthcoming in Willawaw Journal and Ariel Chart.