May 30

You’re making loaves of bread, now,
same recipe, but each a different result,
this one tasting like less but risen more.
We drink in mild heat under the shade
of the fruit trees, and wonder about
that plant growing up the fence, with
thumb-long thorns and translucent
berries. It might be poisonous,
you say, you’re going to pull it.
A few plums, green, incipient, roll
hard underfoot, not yet edible, and these,
never to be. How sad, you say, it is,
to be sad in Summer. The sky stays
open, without a hint of closure.