Egg shell shatters, a thousand pieces of white and son plays with blueberries. We’re making scones on a Saturday. He laughs as the purple fruit rolls; flour on his nose. Flour his father-in-law grows, wheat fallen, wheat dead and drug, stripped of stalk where once it swayed as though dancing.
Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies… says John. Flour slides into egg into butter into dough.
It’s a kind of grace, this. Making scones with my son on a Saturday. That all children could know …
(Would you join me here, today, friends?…)