Why have I never written words in praise
of bread? Out of wheat and yeast and water
I made a loaf this morning, as always
amazed by how good it tastes with butter
When writing a line ending with 'death'
the obvious word to rhyme with it, the one
that leaps first to mind, its opposite 'breath'
In between, somehow find the connection
while paying attention to meter and
sound. Death in a poem is no surprise
It's on my mind. In the kneading the thought
takes a shape like the dough in my hands
It takes time for the long slow rise
onto the page, breath into bread into sonnet.
No comments:
Post a Comment