If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,
if the rug beneath us
is woven with tough flowers,
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1HIx0UlFK5spJeElchVQaefqQXGIU9S66-F6g7pEGlemwWX0umqI-j4FvLlX9fG4CqyXG-4tPw9ybpNDzar4huj9w8PuLefrV-1mwiRafC2vMKmxiahI0dJbD9DDwY_nuQEQyd2b5iU/s200/204303-Natura_morta_con_ciotola_e_prugne-1.jpg)
rests with the sweet heft
of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,
if my body curves over the babies,
and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its shape,
and this quiet is only quiet.
Image credit: "Still Life with Bowl and Plums," oil painting by Brunella Neri (originally color).
Lovely, both the poem and the painting.
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