A glorious young bamboo
Has sprung up
Overnight!
—Issa
My daughter sits cross-legged
on the tabletop and reads to me
as I wash the floor on my hands and knees.
Through an open door we smell the first lilacs.
In autumn she will leave this house.
I will never say the words
I remember from my father:
“When you return it will be as a visitor.”
Still there exists a natural order
less compromising than our love, or hers,
or the love I bear my parents.
I scrub with water mixed with tears
and the footprints come away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I wasn’t listening.”
She takes a sip of tea and begins again.