From the Fishouse

She tends the red geraniums.
When their clustered eyes go dark,
she cuts them from their stems.
With her thumb she strokes the
furry leaves, not like common cloth
but the nap and shift of velvet
falling heavy over her hips,
the long slow dance
of Paris, in France.
The swoony glide of his knife
spreading butter.
Not the bread it takes her
all day to bake,
the coarse knead and punch,
but the rise,
the pale cheek of flour,
the dip and shimmer of the heat,
the arched backs of the hills
in their arms of sky.