Raising Bread

—Diane Moomey

First this: winter wheat,
whole wheat, hard wheat;
grind fine.
Honey, butter, water.

Yeast.

Then rolling, thumping,
live dough humping
beneath the fingers.

The yeast.

Soft ball, buttered ball,
buttered bowl, tea towel atop,
white towel atop, the warm kitchen.
You did your part.

Go away.

Yeast does not need you now. Go,
do a crossword, wash the dishes,
wash the dog, wash your hair.
Don’t come back till boozy air
drifts up the stairs, seeps
beneath the bathroom door.

Pummel again, make loaf,
cover.

Go away. Yeast
will do the rest.

One thought on “Raising Bread

  1. Diane: I know the feeling ….watching bread rise without me. Sometimes – and I keep thinking of it each time I read your poem – sometimes a poem works like that without me, filling itself in and flowing over the meager limits I put on it at first, offering warmth and nourishment for the spirit. Thank you for bringing it to us. My spirit wolfed it down. MK

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