The bustling house reverberated with the sounds of clinging dishes;
the washer shook the walls in the laundry room,
so a stack of books was lain upon it
to ease its violent tremblings.
Lights and shadows crept in through the blinds
and cast the silhouettes of the lemon tree's branches on the wall—
as if the sun were a magic lantern.
Breakfast was set on the table.
The occupants, each with a napkin laid in their laps,
ate their fill of eggs and bacon
before rushing out of doors.
White linen was pinned on the clothesline
and rustled in the phantom wind;
The weed eater whined in a knot of grass,
and the fire pit crackled and heaved smoke.
Thus, were the chores of the day—to each his own, assignable.
With what efficiency the little machine toiled!
It operated until the close of the day—
when the dinner bell pealed.
The bustling house died down to a stark silence;
the laundry had been dried and hung in the closets,
so there were only the smoky murmurs of voices—lain up in bed,
undulating like linen in the wind.
