Five daughters， in the slant light on the porch，

    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.