a minor goal
can be accomplished
in the throes
of molasses depression.
the flour & the lard
can throw themselves
into a mixing bowl.
buttermilk can blend itself
into the soft pillow
on the counter
awaiting the pressure of
diamond-creased hands.
the last splinters of hickory
can toss themselves into
the wood stove fire
to spike the heat for the rise.
the weight of cast iron
can be almost unbearable
but for the round
crusty breads
scenting the house
with warm edges of memory.
~~
he warms biscuits at bedtime
with blackberry jam
& milk
to raise his hope
for sweetness in dreams.
he used to bake things
for the joy of it,
for the hearts
of people he loved
& children he taught
to knead dough
with their hands.
lying alone in bed
in a gray house
with creaking
weathered siding,
the wood stove pops
& he wonders
if an old man
snoring in the dark
really makes a sound.
~~~
