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.

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