Lavinia says I mustn’t wear White Lace
When I’m making Gingerbread.
It’s horrid laundering linen
With Molasses stains, she says.
 
Her knuckles turned red as Embers
Scraping on the washboard,
But I say she vanquished the spots,
So how was Heaven harmed?
 
Out to the Henhouse, then down to the Cellar
For the sorghum and the priceless Spice.
My flour barrel runneth over;
I will escort the Weevils out.
 
White Lace and Gingerbread--
Can’t she see the Partnership?
Like puffy Clouds behind the Dogwood
Or the black Cat napping near the milk Pail.
 
And when it’s time to launch it--
Smelling like a ship from India--
But really just across the Graveyard
To the house where the sick woman lives--
 
Nothing but the sky blue tea Towel will do
To wrap the fragrant Cake,
But I know Lavinia’s schemes--
Like a plunder Pirate, she loves her sundering.
 
Replace my blue beauty—the one with the Violets
My own hands engendered,
And wrap my little Sacrifice in the shabby one,
Cut from a flour sack and hemmed in hasty Stitches.

 
 
More prudent, she will say, Prune person that she is,
In case they forget to return it
When the old lady dies.
Prudence—that should have been her Name.
 
She knows nothing of the glory of White Lace
On a jonquil morning
Or Violets wrapping a Gingerbread
In their sweet Embrace.