She has visited before, and she was
not a judgmental friend, but I use
the occasion to spend an entire day cleaning,
always with an eye to what someone other than
the lived-in eye might see, and thus gradually
it is transformed, this well-lived in house,
into the home I imagine at its best it might be.
Was it in honor of her, or myself, or the occasion,
I am not sure, perhaps just in honor of
something always unattainable
in this house with children busy trailing chaos,
and fir and cedar trees forever seeding.
She leaves, and with aching feet I wander
in and out of rooms whose order even
now is fleeting, merely a moment suspended
long enough to think It's done.
I find an errant spot on the dining room floor,
and licking my fingertips bend to rub it, dreamily,
until it's there no more.