In the garden round back,
the sepia trees have no negatives
cannot be printed next year.
Behind pinstriped fence,
other people's homes
keep hold of their gavels.
Wood smoke exhales its stray hairline
crack into a sky with formations,
that look like Tweety Pie
except for the swastikas,
where hams used to rest in its eyes.

Her father is a jumper
half way into the shed,
a sea shank blend twist and turn.
The little girl cut and pasted
into the scene, stands still,
mittens falling like aspen,
as she tries to find the required grin.
She has been told that Inuits
have over a hundred words for snow.
Wonders why all we have is 'love'.
Beside dandelions she stands.
Watches for the click,
in her new Eskimo coat,
with the hood up, almost
cannot hear a thing.