What Prudent Stewardship?

She could toss a dishpan of popcorn higher than
The gaslight mantle and catch it coming down
Like a waterfall of laughter buttered and salted.
Where has she gone?
Her wintry kitchen windows were meadows
of summer
And there were never happy children there
Until she was,
And then they were,
But now
She isn’t anywhere.
What prudent stewardship of chaos holds
Her hollyhocks half long enough to blur
A hint of hollyhocks to bloom again
And none of her?