And now dear distant one
you are laid forever in that place
where winter comes with frosty fingers
to make bone china of your face.
You so loved these things
but let them all go at the last:
the china, the children and the house.
Time pried them from her grasp.
All we can know of you now
are old photographs in a hutch.
You look down with roses in your cheeks;
the china doesn’t matter much.