We fill the pots with vegetables,
with meat; steam fills the morning
air with smells of dinner; we
wipe our hands on toweling then
pick the baby up to show her what
is cooking, and she sees the boiling
stock, the simmering greens, every-
thing shedding its fresh dice
and mincing to the pots. My mother
finds a spoon and blows and sips,
some for her, some for the baby,
while I wash dishes at the sink,
pile clean ones to the side. Outside
the snow that wants to grace us
comes down as rain; there is
music from upstairs where my husband
is and my mother's husband is, where
they must also smell the food.
The baby cries and she can nap—
I take her to the crib upstairs and
she falls asleep to the dizzying sound
of rain in the streets. Tomorrow
is Christmas and everything here
will have passed, food eaten, plates
cleared; candles lit will have burned;
again the baby will sleep.