The match is struck. The oven lit.
Bread rises before me.
Your hands, stained by cherries and nectarines, Brush hair from my cheek.
There is magic here.
Dark coffee brews,
And halvah sweetens my tongue.
I would break bread with you.
Give me loaves and salami.
And, I will go to the men,
Laden with bags of apples on their backs.
But, I shall return to you.
And, we shall sit in the shade of this kitchen. Our words: ripe, and full, as plums.