Ethos Inheritance
At morning’s nine, the maple tree holds the clothesline taught as sheets flitter in the breeze
Later there’ll be mud pies with resounding praise for the little backyard baker
Who now must sneak dances in sun drenched bedding, while Grandma is not watching
Clothespins never tell - pinching the playful backdrop into place is their only duty
Morning glories tendril up the bedroom window, covering in periwinkle and dusty pink
the telephone’s receiver resting atop the table, and Grandma’s timely posture
There, secrets are voiced, fears are confronted and names are called out to the heavens
Tears wash over concerns. Courage stands and stomps over the rumbling terrors.
“Is she coming out yet?” ?” the child peeks at the back door, assured that playtime can continue…
Sticky maple sap on little fingers…while a silent drum beats from inside the window
Digging dirt for mixing bowls foretells of a burrowing life, but the vocal beat collides with this
The squeaky spigot spills water into pie pans, as Grandma’s voice rains ethos into the air.