We winnow ourselves of husks
That we may grind ourselves to flour
To make dough
Leavened by imagination
Flavored by the salt of our sweat--and blood and tears--
Rising (some things cannot be hurried much)
Baked hot
(Surely this will burn us, let us out!)
Emerging crusty
Glorious to the eye
Breaking bread
Ourselves, each other
Fed
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment