colorful fruit patterned bowl

My Mother, in Winter

Come, through the hallway
to the upright piano, the old one
with the scratched middle C key
an oil painting of Ben Franklin,
dark at the edges, on a blue wall
silver candelabras, polished

Downstairs, Agatha Christies,
browned pages, torn covers
boxes of 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles
with nearly monochromatic swaths of color
shades of red lipstick (cherry, burgundy)
in a bathroom drawer

A long down coat, like a sleeping bag
to her ankles, hangs by the door,
her practical shoes wearing unevenly
Enter now, the warm kitchen, where
large ceramic bowls stay shelved,
too heavy to lift