At the sudsy soapy sink
I think,
with hands that have a care.

Wrinkled fingers, rosy pink,
would rather be elsewhere.

That eggy fork with yolky tines
needs scrubbing carefully.
I’m thinking more of valentines,
and Christmases to be.

The curvature of salad bowls,
the roundness of a spoon.
They summon back, in sweet repose,
my lady of the moon.