We climbed the last steps up the hill
carrying a picnic basket
to a clearing of soft green grass
I spread a blanket on the ground
where we lay back comfortably
In the basket, bread she had made
with her loving and winsome hands
She put out the Manchego cheese,
and candied fruit made from her own
spring flowering quince tree
The bread she had kneaded with care,
still warm from the oven's hot fire,
smelled of our home's kitchen and hearth
and tasted of the salty air
of the sea that welcomed us there
Bread that filled places in her heart
relaxed deep lines crossing her face
eased the toll long years had taken,
Almost like something magical -
helped avert the precipice' edge
We opened a bottle of wine
made from loganberries she picked
from wild bushes nearby; now she
writes in purple script in blank sky
her life story with ink from the
loganberry wine
On the horizon, parting clouds,
the color of home made whipped cream,
rise with the help of afternoon steam
Preparation and a giant
leap of faith are necessary
for there are chasms along the way
If the point is to only love,
and relationships are the bread
and butter of life, all that really matters,
she would let there be no voids where
hearts once played, no echoes fading
into the hands of father time
In spite of deep grief and sorrow,
and chimney sweeps have gone away,
She wishes for her family -
forever mornings of birdsong,
rock candy afternoons, moonbeams
to lead an unfinished opus
for never ending evenings
We are writing about bread today at dversepoets.com
