It’s too many word he says
reading over my shoulder.
I’m anxious to finish,
to walk in the sun.
Too many words? What does he know?
He’s a baker, not a poet.
The slap of dough on the counter
matches the scratching of my pen.
His strong hands massage the past
sugar, yeast, flour, water
into sinewy strands of gluten,
gently pushing this way and that
quietly rolling and shaping dough
as I shape word on paper.
His strands knit together
a perfect boule, Xs on top.
I smell yeast as the oven closes.
Easter dinner is a promise right now.
Spring taunts me through the window
no amount of leavening could
lighten my words.
In the end I cede to the baker
silence may be golden
golden as the crust on his steaming bread.