Dough is rising.
Mama’s hands are dusted with flour
like a sacred talc. The girls are princesses,
pioneers, flamenco dancers, firefighters.
Sometimes they are mothers, too.
A gingham tablecloth makes a fine parachute.
Wooden spoons can be oars, scepters, microphones.
The girls wash their dolls in the sink, leave them
to dry in the cat’s bed. White particles drift
slowly from Mama’s fingers like the last
day of winter, like the first day of spring.
Butter melts on a warm slice of bread.