Beets sweetened in the straw basket
and rains poured
from the downturned lake of sky.

Each wet morning her hands kneaded
dough and pulled, sliced the rye loaf
on the pine cutting board,
pinched white geraniums to send

ghost blossoms up the windowpane.
Her reflection spun like a lightning wheel.
Then she rolled rice and meat
into pockets of cabbage, counted them,
smothered them in sauce.

When she sat down to sew,
bad ankle stiffening,
she placed the patch of silk
next to a square of tweed,
then plucked one silver button
from the jar of dark ones,
resolved to make something new.

Gleaming thread drifted
like a thought
through the needle's eye.
She knotted it
and pierced the cloth.