As I butter the bread for morning toast,
its symmetry and perfect slices
makes me long to bake bread.

Real bread-
yeast and flour, dusty white clouds
drifting across the counter.
I can feel the satisfying sensation
of kneading supple dough-
its heft and lightness of air filling
the essence of leavened life.

I will form
the fragrant dough into strong rectangular
loaves for slicing or long legged baguettes,
perfect for sharing around a pasta dinner,
crowded with friends and family.

Or maybe it becomes
unkempt round loaves, rustic and comforting.
Baked in the fire,
the crust of this earth will be mottled
or seeded with the tiniest bit of burnt edges,
from having been left in the hot oven,

for just that moment too long,
when I was waiting for the next word to rise.