Here I stand in the kitchen, a chilled mother with warm thoughts, easing tissue-thin skins from slithers of moist flesh.
Birdsong. Peaceful solitude. Time unrolls its red carpet.
Considerably reduced, I slip a few scarlet streaks into a bone-white bowl. A familiar voice calls me to the garden. "Tea dear!" but I hunger for something stronger.
A rush of love flies like an arrow to pierce silence