Dec. 13 - A Thousand Loaves

*** December 13th***

A Thousand Loaves

Come, sit

I’ve made a fresh pot of tea

Some bread?

Fresh from the oven

The way you always loved it

Your grandmother’s recipe

***

I remember how you used to make it

When I was small

And I would watch you from a stool in the kitchen

Your hands would work the dough

Knead it and punch it

And like magic, it would rise

Once in the oven,

It was hard not to watch it

Rise and grow, turn golden by the oven’s light

And when it came out all crusted peaks and valleys

Carefully sliced and topped with butter

A taste of heaven

***

As the years went by

I no longer needed the stool

Your hands become worn

Took mine and showed me

How to work the dough

How to feel when it was right

***

I make my bread

See your hands in mine

Feel the rhythm of a hundred generations

And I think of you,

Sitting there with me

Another loaf of bread

Another cup of tea

As though you never left

***

In your cast iron pan

I place my soft pillow of dough

And I still wait with impatience

To see it rise, to see the glow

I knock the bottom of the loaf

Like you showed me

Hear the hollow response

Let it rest

Then tear into it

Steam billowing out

Butter on bread

A piece of heaven

***

I remember the last time we sat together

Like this, over tea and bread

I held those worn and weary hands in mine

You smiled and told me of when you were young

Of loaves of bread

Made with your grandmother

*** Poetry in Free Verse ***