Every morning it’s exactly the same.
On my white china plate you place
One piece of whole-grain toast, cut into two neat triangles,
One pat of marigold butter slowly melting into the bread,
One tall glass of milk, blue-tinged in the morning light,
And one crystal bowl piled with fruit.

I can tell how you are feeling by looking at my breakfast.
Sometimes, when the rain pounds down outside,
Like God is taking a prolonged shower,
You slice crimson watermelon and fan it in the bowl.

I know I’ve made you angry
When half a banana rots at the bottom,
Or that I should wrap my arms around you in comfort
When I see glistening, bruise-colored mounds of blackberries.

Apples and pears, hacked into chunks, for those brisk fall mornings,
Grapes for when you only want to shuffle around in slippers,
Tangy, ruby-red pomegranate arils if you’re feeling tropical,
One day frozen green peas when you hadn’t slept all night.

But my favorite days are when the sun shines.
When the sun shines, you fling open the windows and put on your checkered apron,
And chop pineapples and mangoes and oranges,
As if to tear the dawn out of the sky
And distill sunshine for me in my little crystal bowl.