Snow sieves over the lawn
like an angel’s torn eiderdown
minus the comfort. I’m shaking
packets of Fleischmann’s
over warm water. “Set the yeast
aside,” the family recipe says.
A peripheral flicker—her apron?
Then the slow dissolve. A pinch
of basil and thyme, I think,
to season the work at hand, which is
partly remembrance. Part honey
and salt. A measure of grain.
Now to hollow the well within
everything already sifted. In goes
the oil and foaming leaven, inviting
faith in chemistry’s laws
and daily bread, in the trusted
directions, passed down. Go on,
heel-press your questions,
knuckle-deep, into the dough, picture
the one who called himself
Bread still murmuring, “Grace,
peace”—that all might be
won, meaning anyone
unable to rise. Exhale.
Let heat take it from here:
Fishes and loaves optional.
Hear the author talk about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.
Photo by Nadya Spetnitskaya on Unsplash
5 Responses
Thank you for your words that stopped me, and then helped me breathe evenly again.
“I am the Bread of Life”, He said.
Mary, thank you for breathing into that life-giving image with me! May the hours ahead be nourished by God’s loving strength and yeasty joy . . .
Great to hear you read and talk about this new poem, but even more to hear you talk about House of 49 Doors. What a delight!
I love this, Laurie. Especially:
“picture
the one who called himself
Bread still murmuring, “Grace,
peace”—that all might be
won, meaning anyone
unable to rise.”
So wonderful.
And wonderful also to hear you speak about the poem and the new book!