You will call up the memory of the weeping willow
in the garden of your childhood, of grandfather
stripping its fine saplings to weave baskets
that fit into your hand.
You will see your mother, face flushed from oven heat,
hands deep in yeasty dough, folding and pushing,
adding a dusting of flour, wiping
her hands on a blue apron, making clouds.
You will conjure the feeling of your hand
in your father’s, hear him laughing,
understand that no man
will ever love you as he did.
You will remember the waft of fennel
on a heavy summer wind,
the taste of black figs in September,
the luxury of winter fires and dreamless sleep.
And when all else fails you,
there will be long daydreams of walks into the woods
for wild mushrooms and elderberries, and
this will be enough, after all.