Small talk

By

My mother and the housewife who lived next door Welcomed the chance for unraveling the past Or talking of Boston ferns, the way the fronds Unfurled from the dark and spilled almost to the floor In green suspension. Nothing, not even the price Of rickrack was felt unworthy of a brief Remark or two. And if they were shelling peas Or seeding cherries, they let the flow of their words Keep pace with the rhythm of their hands. They loved The endless small details, the snippets of life Which taken singly seemed as commonplace As a radish seed, but in the aggregate Might well have put the wisest scholar to shame.

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