There were four triangles
resting under ice
in my freezer
left there at Christmas
when my sister,
who made them by hand,
went home.
I was prostrate
to listen
that day in the sun
before the grief welled up
and although meditation
sounds like sitting still
my body’s wisdom
turned on the oven
waited for heat
let those four delicacies
warm my kitchen
then my belly.
So when the question arose
that prompted my sobs
knees on the ground
the sweet taste of salt
was already in my mouth
the tears added savour
to unravelled caring
all this love
pointless and deep
lonely
and connected.