seven.
hands invisible
to the wrist bones
eyes softly lidded
dreamy
she sifts.
there is no pie
to be made
there is no celebration
that mandates cake
no cat head biscuits
to come.
there is
just
flour.
there is
just
this child.
solemn as
I will ever see her
quiet and stoic
stirring her flour.
time was she would
not have been allowed
this luxury
time was she might
have been smacked
for her wastefulness
but today
well..
today I can afford
two cups of Martha
in a pale green ceramic bowl
and today I can expend
the energy required
to clean up the dusting
left behind
on the table
on the floor
inside which I will find
two tiny barefoot prints
left by my flour child
like a gift for me.

today I can afford all of that
because her silent joy
will make me richer
than God.