Monday, October 19, 2009

i am the beggar of this horizon
i have no wherewithal

except as it please you
only those things
small enough to be missed
in the transactions of a day

held in a pinch and dropped
in the quick passing
not even much
not even stay

let fall a smile
brush my hand with your hand
accidentally
meet my eye

in passing
the bread last saturday was preceded. it was reputed the week before, and again the day before, and even earlier that day. saturday, bread would be made.

it was preceded by a foldable blue cart with a bread machine, in case. a diminutive scale of the ounces and thirds or sevenths in a satchel, and the white book of bread wisdom ruffled with yellow post-its denoting the road followed.

and, flour, and yeast, and sugar, and oil, and salt, and fresh herbs. and little bowls with larger ones, and measured spoons, and a long black granite table.

and a reading from the book, procedurally just so: two, one, one half, one third, one spoon, one hand. wet - water warm not hot - and then dry, and then together. and knead.

and the faith, it will rise. set aside in a quiet corner, if kept away from the draft. to twice its size in an hour whose every minute was remarked. and conscientiously occupied with talk and making chicken soup and side glances.

and lo, and yes, the larger dough - kneaded and patted into the pan. brushed with oil and salted. herbed and spiced to taste. popped in the oven, became bread. and was eaten.