we made home-made bread
yesterday, with tomatoes the
size of softballs,
in the kitchen where you
watched the sun rise like
dough; ambling along morning
in the company of the past—
mischief buried in our
bones—
while you harvested memories
and string beans between
rows of clover.

you watched us and we
watched you behind the window,
behind the sink—
*what kind of trouble will you,
we,
get into today?