Epigraph

A Rain-Brain in a Broom-Room

“Write another one, Mum,” she says,

and wriggles her pants to her waist,

and pulls me down to a Henry-hug,

and squinches her soft-nosed face.

Seeing me raise the pen again,

she clasps tiny fingers in delight

and turns up the ends of her rose-bud mouth

and bounces her pudgy knees tight.

Earlier with her mini’ture tool,

She’d set out to sweep up her room,

Needing the dust pan in the back hall asked,

“Why don’t you use your broom?”

I’m hoping that someday she’ll fully comprehend,

that I’ll no longer have to explain,

when using my broom I don’t get the smiles

that I get when I’m using my brain!

—nancy bird lachance, 1979