Why, turning, does my life
small itself so readily, restricting
its contours to the idea of making
homemade peanut butter with my daughter,
which leads my son to declare he will not
make anything for anybody, that he
dislikes Christmas in general and won’t
even eat the cookies this year, in protest.
Meanwhile I wonder if daughter rhymes
with peanut butter, once again my attention
riveted to the fleeting fascinations of my children:
the color wheel, weather, dinosaurs.
These become my metaphors but before
I’ve written anything they’ve moved on
to Greek myth, carnation pink.
Any of these worth an epic, a large canvas,
and I see how I could fit a few
naked women around the edges,
but my mind trends to handwork, the dropped
stitch no one else will notice.