The Moya View

Making Miracles

She’d get up early and secured the world for Milagro:
Making sure the window latched and wouldn’t lose a dream,
that the new bread would rise and be ready for tomorrow’s
stove, that the kitchen would always smell of promise
and hope, the two of them forever making good meals,
making familia, in the rise of heaven,
that the recipes of their lives be scribed in their hearts
traditions, their every memory where it should be,
stored in the bones until the butterflies came home,
until papa came home from the sea with so many pompano
that they exceeded the latitude, longitude of the world,
always continuing from yesterday to
tomorrow, the same labor and the same love
never crossing into night or turbulent dark waters,
hardly passing in clay seconds, just still time,
until sleep continued, another Milagro,
another papa and mama and dreaming
with slightly different names, words, hopes, promises,
saving the aroma of what has been and will
always be the kitchen of mankind kneading
the bread to feed tomorrow’s world.





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