The orange dough of sunset had become too expensive
to bake bread,

so the women wore stars on their shoulders
like epaulets

to honor the holiness of bread.
They kissed the old bread before throwing it away.

It was hard to tell the difference
between the old beards of beggars and the ecstatic

hair of angels who know what fruits the night
will bring in. It was the year

I awoke to the nativity of snow, the year lilies lit up
my garden of hopes,

the first time I had a closet full
of dresses to sweep the floors and porches of life,

the first time shoes by the kitchen windows knew
how to say my name.

It was the year I learned time sang in increments
of fair weather.

Among ripe oranges, I discovered
I could pray without putting my hands together,

the night birds knowing I was grateful,
though my fingers were busy forming little stars.