Your lemon and lavender
hug keeps me warm as we begin
to prepare our Sunday feast.
You in your cracked brown shoes,
scuffed with dreams and hopes;
me, in Mary Janes squealing with newness.
Across the kitchen counter
your Lithuanian lilt rolls as we flatten
out dough, plump with nuts and raisins.
I watch your hands spotted and gnarled,
pound what will rise with heat and time.
“A pinch of dis, a smidgeon of dat,”
Your voice, like summer cornstalks,
rustles over pots and pans gurgling on the stove.
Kneading and braiding the Christmas bread.
