She could stir herself,
spoon the soup babbling its own language
to the beans, awash in their own
thoughts while the crusted sun
of risen bread awaits a silver blade 
in this house of thick clay bowls, nested
pots and pans, all those edges
cupping bounty 

or

she could lay down
the woven towel, its faded
stripes crumpling like cloud-shadows
on the distant hills, follow corridors
of passing geese, their words
falling like pebbles
to be gathered, hoarded against
the barren months. They are
watching, waiting for
what could be ….