OPTIONAL POETRY

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 […]