I love in apples: crisp-fresh, candied, or wrapped in my great-grandma's pastry. Her recipes were my first language, a silent tongue of peace; when have fruit and spice ever spoken of hatred? But making pie crusts with my mother taught me that words are not enough, some things have to be attempted and failed over and over until the knowledge trusts your hands so well as to call them home. When I bake a pie, every bite is a kiss years in the making. It gives without expectation. I can think of no purer way to love than this.I love in apples: crisp-fresh, candied, or wrapped inmy great-grandma'spastry. Herrecipes were my first language, a silent tongue of peace; when havefruit and spiceever spoken of hatred? But making pie crusts with my mothertaught methat words are notenough, some things havetobe attempted and failed over and over until the knowledgetrustsyour handsso well asto call them home. When I bakea pie, every biteis a kissyears in the making. It giveswithout expectation. I can think of nopurer way tolove, than this.My great-grandma's recipes were my first language. Fruit and spice taught me enough: to trust your hands, to call them home. A pie is a kiss without expectation, pure love.My great-grandma'srecipes were myfirst language. Fruit and spice taught meenough:to trustyour hands,tocall them home. A pie is a kiss withoutexpectation,pure love. grandma's first language fruit and spice taught me to trust to expect pure love (note: if you're not familiar with a burning haibun, it's a really fun format where you write a passage in prose and then erase portions to make a poem. From there you continue to erase until you are left with a haiku)
love
Because the universe is not obligated to tell me of your passing
One moment you will be here
and the next you will be gone.
There is a line somewhere,
as fine as spider’s silk,
that divides a world with you
from a world without.
I am afraid of stepping over
that near-invisible crack
without even noticing,
until I look back
and find it has grown
into a canyon.
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