Kneading what was left of flour and sugar
and one small grain of salt, I saw
my knuckes red and raw from work
and out the window where the fields
were burnt, you in you soiled grey
came trudging home. I stood and stared.
Were all things then beautiful, or as
they had been, would be, or
did I just wipe the dust off on my skirt
go to the door, and let you in--
the silence and the light between us
and the sudden end of war?