No matter the color of sky,
he'd come. A basket of breads, fruit jellies, slices of cured meats.
Subtle pleasures. When the sun
shot heat down like it was angry,
he'd come.
And when the clouds got too fat
and cried their bodies gone,
he'd come.
So, when it got to be the start of a new week
and she had not seen his half-smile, round
and homely face, straw hair, she worried.
No one else knew her secret. No one else
knew what she'd done. And now he's gone
and missed two days.