I don't understand this old woman who listens to Puccini, wears black stockings and aprons, covers her head with cotton scarves tied at the nape of her neck. She crosses herself when the dough doubles, lifts it onto a board, caresses in circles, divides and holds up three swinging strands. She braids and makes them one. I have everything written down, no need to stay. At dawn I hear Puccini's The Swallow and her voice.
Dishes rattle in the china cabinet.
Patricia Flower Vermillion, a prize-winning writer, has published poetry in The Writer, Orphic Lute, and Virginia Country .