We gather what we need
from the cupboard—the bags
of flour and sugar, the salt, the cinnamon,
the cups and spoons for measuring.
I pull the milk and butter from the fridge,
and in a large glass bowl,
she stirs these things in by hand.
I fold the blueberries in with a spoon.
What could I tell you of war?
Except that we're here together,
in a world we find hard to fathom,
trying not to rush the days,
in this house with a warming oven
that will soon smell faintly of cinnamon,
whose counters will fill with muffins,
their tops inked blue by sweet juice.