I press my foot into the moss felted raised bar

As I lean forward and search for what’s behind the glass.

I can see inside your cherry-bridged home, 

Triangle decals etched into every corner

Of the strong wood that supports.

In a cube, sealed by polyester glass,

In a room full of other rooms,

Rooms that doesn’t stand out quite as much as yours.

I’d imagine you’re a simple woman.

Delicate braids that have been woven

since the sun came to kiss your cheeks 

on a Sunday morning.

Checkered patterns and stitched flowers

Is what you spend your time, sewing together

In the space between the warming timbers

In the soot on the windowsill. 

You’ve just polished the floors.

Wax setting pungent on your nose hairs,

As you think about what you’re going to put on the table that night. 

Your husband will be home soon, riding down 

from the snow-peked mountain tops.

You wonder if he’s gonna bring home the head of a chicken,

Or brown leaves of tobacco 

to fill his cigar.

I leave you to it, 

and move on to the next miniature.