Above Stephanie’s eyebrows a hat slouches, yarn – the color of her lips, November roses and a tablecloth 

just inside a window spilling overcast sky and the roar of F-15 jets into our little kitchen 

where a creamy vanilla candle lights up words she’s reading.

When the timer in the toaster oven dings,

she loads pizza rolls onto a plate 

pours cinnamon spiced hot chocolate into two cups 

which she sets on the table, 

her grey knit sleeves,

the color of clouds about to burst 

with hope and peace and mirth,

a raindrop chorus on our aluminum patio roof, 

the color of boxes on a calendar 

leading up to Shabbat