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