the Christmas Luncheon, the
thyme was
a mess of fine powder all
in the drawer; or the wonder
of having
enough stuff. Is the
plunder of simple work,
sitting quiet
together? What red snaking
vine of thunderhead thread-
ing around
overhead read as fine lines
of a ledger for so far a
distance?
How much work a pittance
of our lowly picnic spread
out
on a snatch of burlap all
stained green with the
residue of
things eschewed by
implications in it's
cooking?
