Digging for Worms

he's building her a pink house
with a garden--here's rosemary
for remembrance, for

Old Mother Hubbard peering into the
larder, stocked full now, with
sugar and spices and boxes upon

boxes of comestibles large and small,
the palate-pleasers cooked over
quickflames while the sun penetrates

the gauzy curtains of the pink house,
skirtingboard cream-colored, a band of
blue where the wall meets ceiling, the

mirrors reflecting the walls, many spined,
close written titles, ink-printed, so many words,
words, words,

and quiet floors, soft-padded with floral
knots, hand tied and cut,

the dawn chorus wakes us up and
we are sung to sleep in the
dark blue

we have had our milk and bread,
we are good children, both of us