Tears Under the Sycamore Tree

He called it The Wildfire, a mandolin quilted on the side,
mother of pearl inlay, bright of tone; he played under the tree
where mother died, while a warm breeze hit my face,
bearing hints of meadow saffron, poisonous first flower of spring.
I breath deep, remember, then press out more tortillas,
and ladle mole poblano over chicken, while brother whines
how mother used more cumin, less chocolate, more chile.
Later, I lace my boots, wincing when burrs caught in the laces
sting my hands; I want to cry, but not from the pain.