Our House Is Alive

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My mom, in the kitchen:
swirls the ladle,
taps the spice canister,
gently tips the milk.
Her wrist swishes back and forth.

My mom, in the laundry room:
turns the knob,
dips the detergent in,
scoops the clothes.
Her arms move back and forth.

My mom, in the living room:
follows the vacuum,
twirls the duster,
bows down to reach lonely corners.
She knows every inch of the floor.

Our house has a pulse, with the heart of a dancing mother





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MeMe said...
Aug. 4, 2008 at 7:33 pm
I loved the rhythm and imagery of this poem. You have a gift!
 
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