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The Tea Party
by Jane Lang

She stood at the crest of the knobby knoll
looked out toward the sea yet her eyes
would not leave the place of her youth
purple heather fronting the small knoll
her father planed, then added slabs of
water-washed rock up-and-over where small
feet once trod—where all things were good
nothing unknown, yet her favorite, not
the once blue house, now wind-washed
white, not the sturdy, stable barn built to
stand gale, freeze and foe…her daddy said
nor the billowing fir, arms reaching to
heaven, strong enough for a rope swing
for his little girl to fly…it was the shed
closer to the edge of the cliff he made
specially for her— it was a café on a
Paris street where she and her dolls
had tea with a carefully-wrapped scone,
cut into three pieces, her daddy
gave to her as she started off with
her two friends to sit, sip, snack, look
out at the sea…before her daddy
went to heaven


 

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