by Alan Abrams
Friday, January 28, 2011
Rated "G" by the Author.
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on March Seventeenth
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measure by measure
I place in a bowl of clay
water, for flux
flour, gift of the inert earth
salt, from a sea of tears
and a dram of frothing yeast--
the genii that breathes the breath of life
into my bread.
in waltz time, to the rhythm of my breath
mashing, lifting and turning, folding--
until it springs to life in my hands
breathing on its own
needing no nerve or pulse to rise and form.
Now the hungry oven swallows the swollen loaf
rise once more it tries
only to split and admit
the flavor of the flame.
At last the sated oven spits its treasure--
singing softly, the loaf awaits my knife
and my pleasure
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|Reviewed by Axilea MU
|Imagery to feed the soul. The simple pleasure of mixing the right words and sounds and feeling replenished.
|Reviewed by Mary Lacey, Desertrat
Good play on words, needing and kneading. As we need bread, so must we knead it. Very good poem.