GRANDPARENTS' HOUSE

Your hands slap the marble floor.
Your voice fills the empty spaces
in this house I never grew up in.

You tug your sun hat off your head
and squint at the vast Texas sky.
Your hands slap the marble floor.

Clutching bits of flour tortilla
you beam, face smeary and bright.
Your voice fills the empty spaces.

Bang on the windows, little boy:
your reflection is everywhere you look
in this house I never grew up in.

This week's challenge at Big Tent Poetry invites us to write a cascade poem. The form is new to me, but I enjoyed playing with it, and I think it gave this week's poem a nifty shape.

Being in Texas with Drew is overwhelming and wonderful. I hope this poem captures a tiny glimpse of what it's like for me.

If you want to read what others wrote to this prompt, here's a link to this week's Come One, Come All post.