Visiting Camp, a Librarian

Her wool sweater is the color of a frozen lake.
I’ve seen it before. Her wearing it, shelving
books about volcanoes at the Seattle Public Library. 
They drag the fenced gate closed behind her.
She walks in, and all of us kids hush up.
I hear Mom’s ankle-length skirt 
pinned to the laundry line 
whirl in the air.
She sits us in a half-circle. 
She smells like a cloud.

We listen to her read Horton Hatches the Egg. 
When she finishes, she leaves.

It’s dark. I touch the rock in my pocket. 
It reminds me of you.