sun is unfurled across my face
freckled and lined
by all those
summers worn
by dust and seared green pines
fragrant sap sticky as preserved
amber of peaches
warm from the stove
stirred in the ancient black pot
of fore-mothers
their song, sung in wordless
voice
murmuring incantations above
pots and babies and lovers bodies
asleep in the shade
of a warm June afternoon

*** a retelling of an older poem