Folding

… I now surrender to the will of the wind.

                                                                  —Ryokan

I fold the futon bed where my son slept on winter break,
fold flannel sheets, touch fabric that touched him.

I press to my chest a stack of his T-shirts, warm from the dryer,
with his university’s name festooned in maroon and gold.

A lod of white laundry bleaches his undershirts, one sweat-stained
a sweet-corn yellow, the color of baby pee in cotton diapers.

I add two socks into a lump sum, press handkerchiefs into squares
the same size as notes slipped by a smitten girl into his pockets.

I gather, bend, and bag power cords that charge his gadgets.
Before I can enfold him in my arms and kiss him,

he packs his belongings and tall frame like a fold-up ladder
into a friend’s small car, waves and departs again.

I wander through the house, visit his empty room,
find nothing left to fold except my hands.

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