I look out the kitchen window across a yard of short brown grass,
and dry fields. A gray handled shovel waits beside
a compost heap where sweet mulch smell still rises
and discarded bread crumbs become the twittering flutter
of sparrows and blue jays.
A warm breeze flows through last night's silk, delicate and wet,
pinned to a cotton line; a slow simmer on the stove
brings flour and oil to the color of fields and honey.
So many summers kept in peach jars identified by year,
memories of sweet and sour words ending where they should
without a scar for boundary.
Long days in fields, schools and kitchens; too short evenings
in rooms always occupied. My father who reads the weekend
paper standing over my mother, both content within
the fully negotiated spaces between the lines.
I shield my eyes to the sun and rest one hand over my belly.
When my child comes, I will bring her to this porch to watch
the sky darken while the feel of approaching rain drenches
I will hold her warm against me, after the thunders and rain
have come and gone, to watch wide pastures swell green
under cloudless skies, blessing the farmers' sweet corn
and yellow dandelions gathered by generations of children.