in the crease

Between your smile and your hand sifting flour 

I find my footing, this is an obsessions, 

to find the path to make of the bread- a meaning 

in the crease of your wrinkles, 

I find my homeland, how the wrinkles 

of the olive tree, like olive skin generate newer blood

this ancient being has no heftiness

I find my energy in the lightness of your step

cane-bent, but like sugar-cane, you still stand tall at church 

perched on the old desk, that is pinned to the glass

I find my reassurance that once young 

can mean a potential of the future folded in a wrinkled crease 

between your smile and your hand 

I find the remaining bits of thread for a thob

a dress, stitched gold and red

the colors of royals and peasant, contained like my homeland 

on cloth, wrapping around your hands, grandmother.