The Bread Knows. . . .

Some days. . .

are a wipe out.  Only to do what one can.  The Rabbi Teacher asked only one thing.  ‘Feed the children.’  Sometimes the simplest command is shrouded by a complex system of thought.  Think so?

The Bread Knows the Feel of my Hands. . .

I know the dust of the flower
as the bees skin the petals
and suck the juices off their spines. . .

I know the touch of your hand
on the shoulder of my tunic
as I bend to kiss
the child of our union. . .

And know, however much I know,
the feel of the heart
beating against mine and know
to whom it belongs. . .

I knead with no passion
but stir lovingly into
a loaf of wonder. . .
crisp to the knife blade
it will be as it slices. . .

It is with love
I fold the dough onto itself
and it melds selflessly
into a loaf. . .

knowing all the while
the touch of my hand
with love caters
to our natural heritage. . .

both of us part of All That Is, life itself.

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