ironing

I see my mother
at the ironing board.
the baskets of clothes
at her feet.
I hear the steam
from the iron.
I see her slowly,
methodically
press the hot metal
down upon a shirt,
a blouse,
pants, making a crease.
she is quiet.
the children
are asleep in the small
rooms
above the floor.
the husband is at sea.
I see my mother ironing.
her mouth closed.
a pair of black framed
glasses
pressed against her nose.
she is never so still
and at peace
as she is now, ironing.
folding.
standing on a small
rug on the cold floor
in her bare feet.