are bickering. The eldest has come home
with new truths she can hardly wait to teach.
She lectures them： the younger daughters search
the sky， elbow each others' ribs， and groan.
Five daughters， in the slant light on the porch
and blue-sprigged dresses， like a stand of birch
saplings whose leaves are going yellow-brown
with new truths. They can hardly wait to teach，
themselves， to be called "Ma'am，" to march
high-heeled across the hanging bridge to town.
Five daughters. In the slant light on the porch
Pomp lowers his paper for a while， to watch
the beauties he's begotten with his Ann：
these new truths they can hardly wait to teach.
The eldest sniffs， "A lady doesn't scratch."
The third snorts back， "Knock， knock： nobody home."
The fourth concedes， "Well， maybe not in church. . ."
Five daughters in the slant light on the porch.