Sometimes, my mother tells me
of a fantasy she has always had—
a farmhouse in the mountains, only
in these mountains, it only snows on Christmas. And,
there is no farm to care for, only a farmhouse.
And peaches, growing row by row
in an orchard she can see
from the orange-painted kitchen.
And the peaches are always fat
and sweet and untouched
by flies or bats or birds.
And around the farmhouse
there are ponderosa trees that perfume the air
with pine and vanilla, and my father
is always almost home, and dinner
is always almost ready,
and there are no holes in the drywall,
or leaks in the pipes, and all the windows
are double-paned, and crystal clear,