The honesty of change
Rochelle Mass
White sheets in the fog changed into sails,
ringed the branches of the lemon tree that morning.
As golden fingers stretch from the east
a woman counts loaves of bread, places tomatoes
near the window. The fog, lifted by the wind into a storm,
shoulders the mountain.
The land is hard, cracks like words. The woman
hears blossoms turn thin; she bows to the honesty
of the change, breaks a loaf, places
two parts on the table.
A kiss of sustenance, this is, she whispers.
I have nothing else to tell you.
