I worry about the strip of sunlight that,
each morning, glides across the painting

of a sailing ship my mother gave me
when she had no space for it. I worry

how that light will fade the paint,
blanch the green-black ocean to grey,

making the sleek cutter, sails taut
with wind driving it on its mission,

look like some plastic toy in bathwater.
Over her wineglass my mother will

then say, What happened to my ship?
I think of moving it to a different wall,

but my mother will say, Why did you
move my ship? Our hemisphere tilts,

degree by degree, further into spring.
The slat of sunlight dips down to where

it just brushes the frame as it drifts
across the smooth tomato-bisque

finish of the wall. Now what will
my mother say about her ship?