Buen provecho.

After lunch our family exited by the long,
Whispering table in the window.

Knives down, forks,
No chewing, no replenishment--

But an untoward whirr
Low in the warm air-something like a slow-moving fog,

Purple and dirty.

Leigh explained that, especially in the small towns
Of Mexico,

Where it was polite, people whose eyes met
Said, "Buen provecho."

It means:  Hey, dig in.  But more broadly, and
More spiritually,

It means, It's yours now--and I have seen you, and we share this.
Rescued together from less, but separated, in a kind of fenced in sky.

No later than now, all these things I love--and they're gone.

I had spent a part of the morning thinking of a Gustav Klimt
Picture, the fur-collared model standing black against the

Somber gold of the evening snow.

I couldn't get that snow out of my head--
How ephemeral and fixed it fell,

As if bleating clouds, leaping the fence,
Each being counted on its drowsy way.