We are out of bread, soup and tea now.
My little sparrows, perched on tenuous
twigs, still hope. Their faces bloom
with too many bones, and eyes implore
what is a mother for
but to turn a potato
into a pearl?
My fingers plait smooth hot salt
and the teaspoon of honey melts in a song.
Two figs and a promise with each sip;
mama shall walk on water
tomorrow.