Recall through the face at the door
that saturday morning one solid blank
grey window, scrubbed slab
beyond, several feet and more
laid the catapult, a pointed edge
from a distant acre fed, wind-side.
The concentric pattern in velvet
curtain brushed my hand as I reached
to turn and swing, oiled lock routine
the knives of cold the comfort
between the welcome and rain
rutted yard yawns closed, beyond.