In the mirror of
winter I long for
sun on the neck,
its scarf of sorrow—
the wild jasmine
and arid cliffs,
warm as bread,
veiling my face.
I slow the swirling
and turn the spoon
like an oar to blend
the pepper, cream,
veiling my face.
I slow the swirling
and turn the spoon
like an oar to blend
the pepper, cream,
and drifting thyme.
