Summer rain rattles the downspouts.
I listen to Puccini, perfect music
for Sunday morning. From the window
I watch grass swell, so eager
to turn green.
My daughter, fresh
from napping, joins me. Rain fails
to interest her. Young butterfly,
she dances yet another version
of ballet - up and down, to and fro,
untrained pirouette - a big-girl
across rose-colored carpet.
I warn her not to dance too close
to the brick hearth. She collapses,
contemplating soot, and holds each palm
toward white oak cinders, then touches
a brass poker, rattles it against
a matching broom. “But, there’s no fire.”
I pull her close and explain flame
is not today’s danger.
“That hearth is rough and hard.”
Above the mantel between fresh red candles,
a landscape hangs - full of thin men
in red coats and black hats, riding
white stallions. Hounds cluster around
their polished boots. With bugle sounds,
a foxhunt begins.
She assures me
she will be careful
if only I will let her dance.
Twisting from me, I watch her blonde hair
twirl, frail arms weaving. I reach around
and close the fire screen’s mesh.
Cold andirons wait, ornamented
by black owls with glass eyes, eager
for a chilled morning in a February
yet to come.