I still think of the running lava, the hot pool of igneous rock, the molten orange with the golden trimmings, every bit flowing, like eternity, downslope. Do people feared it,
The thunder is no more in the sky. It roams the street, occupies the public square. It is a human tide of unseen proportions, a call for justice, a desire of peace. The unity once lost
Mother made Minestrone. She plucked the finest greens from the herb garden, she then poured them into boiling water, like autumn leaves pulled down by gravity. Mother chopped vegetables.