In the pearl lit dawn.
Coins found under the swing
That hung from her mother’s clothesline.
Or were they from under the tablecloth
Near the cracked pot quietly inched away?
Pungent geranium leaves clung
Lashes flutter open and shut
Fingernail scrapes the window shade.
Bending to stroke her rosy cheek
Garlic and grated cheese lingers
‘Here bambina, you take-a this.’
Opening a black leather coin purse,
Thumb and forefinger magically twist and reach
Her hand cupped in his and then the coolness.
A chief’s profile looks away from them both:
The old man stooped from a lifetime of labor
The newly endowed child forgets her dream.
Some thoughts about money for Sunday Scribblings.
photo by Julia Margaret Cameron
Florence Fisher (After the manner of an old Italian picture), 1872