They are not yours, those eyes –
those hazel eyes crusted
with sleep-thrashed release –
and neither the mind behind
thinking of toast on a new day,
soft-buttered and still yet crisp.
And those are not yours, those fingers,
curled smooth-knuckled on the cutlery,
waiting for toast and soft butter –
and neither the wait for the kettle’s
pitched steam or the dry tea bag
hanging beneath the rim –
And neither the milk nor honey –
never the milk or honey.
No, these are not our things –
these eyes, these minds, these hands –
breads, butters, tea –
not even the footfall that drags
across the bare wood floor is ours
to break the one true fast.
These are our grandmothers’ things,
and all the grands before them
that soon as sunk into sand, rise
and blink in the grandson eye,
takes the granddaughter hand to spread
butter on toast and boil water for tea.