My Mother wiped the flour

From her hands

Looked around the room at us,

We all stood to say

The Angelus.

She called out the prayers For us to answer back, The sound of soft voices Rising up to touch the sky Was our song at mid-day.

My mother blessed herself

And left a white mark

On her forehead.

Is this the way that saints are chosen?

Then she turned back to knead out Tomorrow's bread. Everyone went back to other work. And I thanked God for giving us A mother marked with flour Taken from a field of August wheat.

And I think I know the way That saints are made.