willfully old fashioned.

Look at this. I mean, c’mon. Pockets in a baby sweater. Why?
What’s the point?
He looks up at me, taking a breath, the human bellow.
I am willowing down pattern choices.
The fire catches, I pat the back of my fifth baby,
Clad head to toe in hand wash only woollens.
Just in time I rescue my near burnt bread
It’s daily sponge bubbles at me from the back of the stove.
Trust me, I know how this all looks.
Ridiculous, burdensome, labor intensive.
Know the salt of the earth’s fearsome sting brings
Sweet saturated peace.

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