Household Rhythms

I wrote this back in January, but have had it in my drafts because I wanted to have another stanza. I've been trying to write the other stanza for three months. (Should it be about fixing breakfast in the morning, getting the kids ready for the day? If so what dance would that be to? I think probably the salsa... And shouldn't a stanza about the mornings and breakfast come first? But how to start it?) I am finally thinking that if needed another stanza, the words would have come to me by now. I can't force more to the poem when it doesn't feel right. So I'm just going to publish this as is, and if more comes to me later, I'll update it.

When I am in step with the rhythm of the house,
I waltz my way through the piles of laundry.
I sort the clothes to a 3/4 rhythm:
lights, darks, reds; lights, darks, reds.
I box step to change over the loads.
Wash, dry, fold. Wash, dry, fold.
I promenade the clean clothes into the closets,
open, turn, close, to shelves, hangers, drawers.
As I twinkle and reverse step through the day,
our clothes are cleaned, folded and put away.

When I feel the beat of rhythm of the house,
I swing the toys off the floor, throwout the
books onto shelves. With a rock step, I chassé
this doll into this chair, another rock step,
and chassé that doll into that stroller. I
cuddle the stuffed animals for a beat, two,
three, and then push them into their places.
A swingout for each ball into the bin.
When I jive out the door, the floor is neat,
toys are straightened, the clean up complete.

When I am attuned to the rhythm of the house,
I dance through the kitchen without missing
a beat. A pirouette to put the clean dishes
away, an arabesque to put the dirty ones in the
washer, a plié to put away dried pots and pans.
I sponge down the counters and the table
with long stretches of my arms, graceful
port de bras movements to gather the crumbs.
Before I chassé up to bed, the sink is clean,
the dishwasher running, the counters sparkling.