Through the west window of the kitchen

Dust motes motionless in the shimmer

Of heat still hovering above the stove,

And what is left of the late slanting light

Tinting a glass of white Burgundy, pale

Yellow spilling on a faded lace tablecloth,

Dull sheen of silver, worn and tarnished.

These few things inherited and made new:

The mingled aromas of garlic and scallion,

Lemon and peppercorns, white flesh of trout

Flecked with sprigs of rosemary and dill,

Swimming in a shallow pool of amber oil;

A white chipped china platter, the cracks

In its glaze like the delicate bones of a fish.