Her hands in the suds,
washing dirty dishes,
as his tiny fingers tug
at the dressed-up frame—
resurrecting
her thoughts of his cooing
in a secondhand blankie.
Now, at his toddler-aged joy from
frilled things flying in the wind—
frolicking
beyond the reach of her purse
the lady of means isn't mending,
beyond where his mind could fathom
that innocence is a child at Easter—
with wings.