by Rochelle Mass
A woman takes loaves of bread
out of her wood-burning oven—
places tomatoes to ripen
near the window.
Fog, lifted by the wind
shoulders the mountain.
White sheets, newly laundered
change into sails
ring the branches of the lemon tree.
The land is hard
cracks like words.
The woman hears blossoms turning thin—
she bows to the dignity of change
as she breaks a loaf of the fresh bread
brings it lovingly to the table—
A kiss of sustenance, she whispers—
there is nothing else to say.