Dacha

Spending seven fastidious days sorting freshness
With my lungs. A sea of air shifting
Eternal sands, in a place where time
Has a quality of energy about it, not
Because something must be done but
Because it can warm and cool your skin
Like sunlight. Tea in the afternoon in the
Yard from the smoky samovar, cold cuts,
Cheese, hardy bread, lettuce freshly
Picked and washed, sweet cherry tomatoes,
Still smelling like sunshine on the ground,
Hands that smell like summer rain in the trees
After you wash them in cold, clear spring water,
I am healed where doctors can’t check.