Her perfume
crosses the threshold
long before she does,

clouds the hallway
like an oncoming storm,

disperses in a wave
that drowns the aromas
of the kitchen.

When the dog beelines
to the back door,
Father follows.

Mother, too polite
for our own good,
pours tall glasses of lemonade

and invites her to sit
in the flower garden

where her tongue,
stronger than the bouquet
of her arrival,

smothers fragrant summer
with opinion.