comes gold-glittered and silent.
A ripe pear on the dresser,
soft breath in our one-man tent,
a lung we crawl inside
small as dusk-born rabbits.
It comes as a reminder, the shiver
of walking on our own graves.
You watch a robin’s nest in strong wind,
say, "We are sewn in so lightly."
I bury my arms elbow-deep in the potato bin.
It comes with an interpreter:
a best friend, Cove Creek, the couple at the drive-in,
with bits of city still in their hair.
It comes in the musk of old Bibles,
the twinge of dandelion wine,
a cleanly broken boulder.
Back in the kitchen,
we ladle steaming minestrone and wait.