DAILY BREAD

 

I used to bake bread as if

my life depended on it.  And maybe it did.

I was young, broke, and living in a house

with six friends.  One of us saved money

by diving into anoxeria, until she turned orange

from eating pounds of organic carrots everyday.

 

Another did most of her studying in the bathtub;

I mean she was ensconced in tepid water for splendid

hours on end.  She got used to hearing us pee, as

the toilet was in the same overheated bathroom.

 

Another played plaintive folk songs on guitar and flute

until my ears rang, and I had to spend some of what

little cash I had on bright orange foam earplugs.

 

But we were a community – we all had our house tasks.

One person made soup out of leftover vegetable

scraps she saved in our freezer: carrot tops, tough

brocolli stalks, potato peels – nothing was wasted.

 

And I made the house’s weekly bread – at least six

loaves a week.  Organic whole wheat, sourdough,

and challah, when we had enough eggs come Thursday.

I stirred the dough, beat it down by hand.

 

The kneading was my saving grace, my meditation,

my entry to a personal dream storefront replete with

sugar maples, periwinkle and cumulous clouds. I walked

that forest often and blessed it daily.