Two Sisters, a Mother, Waiting

The first sister gathers nests in her stomach;
the second scrapes dream feathers from her spine,;
the third hides in heavy curtained shadows.
A pot clanks, hot water expels its breath,
the room fills with the texture of earth,
a composition in shades of brown,
no barn owl questions,
no house cricket beats its drum.
Eight o'clock, a sketch of darkness,
sleep comes easily as if it is the silence after the battle
and then the husbands come home unhurt from war.