I cannot make it
so you can hear the way she laughed again
or take away the way your eyes
look so sad right now.
I cannot find the sunshine
reflected in that patch of wild yellow flowers
you pointed out.
What I can do is make the bread
my mother taught me how to make.
In it, I hope there is healing.
And when that field of wild flowers
reminds us it has been three long years without her-
that those flowers had the gall
to bloom three times without her,
we might not feel so much loss.
And when those flowers lose their bloom
and they are brown
and the sunshine feels as far as she does,
maybe with the bread to warm us,
winter will not seem so cold.