Hickories spin in jaunty
nuisance, flipping their wet, golden strands
into the mud. They stick to her shoes.
My daughter, climbing fences.
Little cockleburs. The bears were curious,
out walking through the misty morning
while porridge cools on their spoons.
No one fastens the doors. At home,
our fire burns low. The ashes hold
out pale hands. Onions
unchopped. Dry skin on the counter.
My daughter kicks the legs of chairs. Sometimes
twists me a bouquet. No daisies.
I am always cutting, warping, and stringing
loose threads on the loom. She
weaves through it all, unnoticed. A chickadee
calling from the shagbark. My borrel voice,
course from dyeing the cloth. Today,
the walnuts must be harvested,
cracked and boiled. I want to
say something other than go, to dry her
boots and sit barefoot together
baking new bread, but everyone must
finish what they have to before
doing what they want. So in the forest,
she has to trespass into comfort.
Sees steam through a keyhole. Three oak chairs
circling warm bowls. I’ve never told her no,
so she slips inside and takes a bite, to feel for once
like she’s just right.