After twilight
my mother
made us fold
our hands.
Sometimes she folded
my hand so tight.
She said her mother
once held her tiny hands, too.
The sails at twilight,
ripples in tiny folds
my mother sits in the sailboat cabin
with her folded hands.
Handed down,
the cloth well-folded,
my mother’s grandmother
ironed lovingly by hand.
Unfolding sails,
setting sail with my hands,
my mother watches from the shore.
The sky becomes violet at twilight.
Living Northwest Style 