Like Daily Bread

From some unutterable avidity rises this image
of plunging hands into life, like into a whiteness
of flour, fragrant and sound. To let even the soul
be dusted of that fertile suppleness, prophecy
of abundance, mitigated wait in promise
that will leaven in its own time.

Leavened by dreams, added drop by drop
of water, clear and genuine, like the most
genuine of thirsts which it quenches as it flows
simple, from the roughness of rocks
it cleaved itself, or from those depths of silence
nonetheless pulsating with echoes full of prayers
and grateful returns, of wells on the ground.

Leavened, with salt of grace, the necessary
in release of sprinkled tears and laughter
just so insipidity will not be what rises
from the kneaded fusion of drive and fatigue
by the soul sieved, in alternate layers
of its own yeast, onto the aim of the hands.

Of the hands that mould what will become
shell in substance, more or less crispy
of its very essence, skin of time
about the soul, the crust that fire
in rage or mildness, will render
golden or scorched as it enfolds
its own core of being food or waste.

Of the hands that this unutterable avidity
makes me open, open, as one who is giving
the wholeness of herself.

As one who is sharing her wholeness in unlimited
batches of sated hungers, to be savoured
like daily bread, with love and eyes closed but with
souls leavened, and still warm, in absolute peace.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®