In Another House
The child in flannel gathers
a nesting of bowls,
blue-rimmed for biscuits,
for whipping cream.
She is on the threshold
of the flowered kitchen
and the dark mahogany
of the parlor.
How that fell through
her careful arms,
how they slipped
from the slung plaid fabric
to pieces on the oak floor
is not important.
What is is that they laughed
until they cried,
mother, father, daughter.
The clumsiness,
the wonder of blue flakes
falling in the house of mirth,
oh that,
was something to see.
