Poem, Workshop me Draft 2

After That Winter.

Now I'm certain I saw the dog, wrapped up in the blind cord again,  
sliding it's nervous tail, hiding it perhaps behind the girls 
cool-aide covered legs. 

The dog sniffing, not quite noticing the girl could be sulking.

Yet, I noticed, yes, I smelled the potato chips lingering, certainly
those things-- blued my gray hat, wanting a lavender brim. 

I glanced back to see white gloves in tufts, through honey combed shades,

becoming a chipped stone with calla lilies. Indeed, the blinding has completely 

transformed my translucent porcelain girl's tear into a smile.

The bronze mirror, the one behind the window, it's still there.
Yes, it frames her lovely sleeping hair. She goes again, my golden lock, 
maybe to the basement to find a kite.

Last year the little girl lost would be thinking of spring.
her hopes of lemonade stands, of honeysuckle, 
or a field daisy, from earth to father.

Leaving the house, I close the rusty car door.
Inside all silence is between us, and I whisper it again. 
Will you grant her sleep? The sleep of her lovely hair.