Four of them. One blond, a girl, me. And yes

I have to place myself first, in that dress

red, hand-sewn by the children's mother. In

stages of toothlessness they hold that grin

for the photographer. The wooden frame

made with care by the children's father came

from lumber scraps he found in his workshop

and working with a circular saw, cropped

just a hair of the white around the edge.

These children grew surrounded by a hedge

of lilacs, boxelder trees, attic rope.

They are oblong, a bar of Ivory soap.

One, two, three, four - and the third is a girl.

I place myself first. And the four unfurl.