a handmade life

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    “It’s what’s inside the words,” she said;
    “Inside heart there’s an ear and there’s art.”

    After reading, I couldn’t help but look
    for words among the bread and vegetables
    that made up our simple supper last night,
    both of us finally home after days
    that felt longer than the time passed.
    I couldn’t find God in the green beans,
    or love in the tomatoes; no fun in foccacia;
    not enough meal to make meaning.
    But that’s not the last word, is it?

    The tomatoes tasted like the smile
    of the brown baby at the farmer’s market;
    the crisp sweet corn spelled summer
    without letters; and the bread,
    dipped in the olive oil we keep
    for special occasions, was leavened
    and flavored by all the suppers
    we have shared together, fed
    by the mystery in the mundane:
    another day in our handmade life.

    Peace,
    Milton

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    8 COMMENTS

    1. I really love this poem – place it in a little rustic home with real people, with a veg garden, with earth, sun and water… living real with smiles!

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