Sunday, April 4, 2010

April 4 – Too Many Words

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.

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