You’re making loaves of bread, now,
same recipe, but each a different result,
this one tasting like less but risen more.
We drink in mild heat under the shade
of the fruit trees, and wonder about
that plant growing up the fence, with
thumb-long thorns and translucent
berries. It might be poisonous,
you say, you’re going to pull it.
A few plums, green, incipient, roll
hard underfoot, not yet edible, and these,
never to be. How sad, you say, it is,
to be sad in Summer. The sky stays
open, without a hint of closure.
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OPTIONAL POETRY 
ah, yes: the ever-open sky – even when filled with all the many detail of earth and cloud
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sometimes almost oppressively blue… until it starts raining then sun is all I want
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This reminds me so much of Robert Frost, only without the grumpiness. Wonderful writing.
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Thank you! Although I certainly can be grumpy… glad it didn’t come through 🙂
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You’re intimate with your words. A true original.
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Thank you!
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I like it. wow
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thank you!
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