A kitchen where the solarium once was,

Three of us (a decade later, a different constellation)

The butter softening on the counter.

I watch a squirrel excavate

The choicest bulbs from your garden,

Brushing the dirt from her harvest.

The price of this snack: a patch of flowers.

Both of you polishing toast racks before breakfast,

Gleeful and fastidious. 

We sit down to cold toast,

Now in its silver cage,

Reviewing each slice, each year on display,

Letting the crumbs fall where they may.