Daughter # 8: Harriet
My days have brushed steel highlights in my hair
These babies I am birthing are my last
My cronehood beckons. Yes, these babes are rare.
Their youth draws near. I have to teach them fast.
Here's Harriet, hearth keeper, my right hand
Who scrubs and cleans, who cooks and mends, who sweeps
And sings, as though her life were all unplanned
And we weren't desperate for the hearth she keeps.
My Harriet, my girl who plots to be
My child of dust, of mud and soot and clay,
I mean to teach her, but she teaches me
She keeps me grounded when I drift or stray.
I've named her and I've taught her all I know
She's here to stay. That means now I can go.
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