Not so much texture
as the life deep within,
the density when you heft
that silent, brown loaf
into your gloved palm, weigh it out
there, appreciate this
still, warm mystery: the call
of yeast to flour
in a damp, wooden tray, to
repopulate itself, a self-contained
antithesis to war; then
the kneading, the pulse and the flow
of what you hold so near
to yourself, of what
you do not know, the energy worked
into the resilient dough. You hum
while young animals work
below the window, and you wipe out
a wooden bowl, and prepare to partake
of the meal that is built
in the delicate balance between
your love and your fear.


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