Flushed and bent, she mashes their turnips
with hands that once were soft, manicured,
while steam rises like memories, obscuring
her pickled kitchen. Beyond glass, fall nips
at the rose bush, takes its last bloom. Music
wanders from the now crowded front parlor,
the small, polished room that becomes duller
each year, chintz aging, wood showing nicks.
The tune bids; she recalls a long ago harvest
when a boy blushed as he asked her to dance
at the fair. The rhapsody and a new romance
boldly twirled her champagne chiffon dress.
Suddenly, she’s back on that floor, love swept,
for her feet never forgot those long ago steps.