Poem #36: Loaves

~ for Richard
Up before anyone, you nudge the house awake,
coaxing lamps, placing your hands gently in drawers,
shuffling pots and pans, pre-heating. Above,
I bury my face in blankets. Another snow day!
The children breathe deeply in their beds,
so I retreat, let sleep take me back
into its arms. What we don’t see:

the large bowl you fill. In the beginning, an egg.
Floury innocence, all-purpose love. A pinch
of patience. A sprinkle of this and that. Vanilla,
which itself is love. Your sleepy musings. You turn
it all round with a wooden spoon. Sometimes,
you add chocolate chips like secret kisses.
The day before, I would have grimaced
at the oily bananas on our kitchen counter,
called them spent, swatted at the fruit flies.
But you see potential, an essential ingredient.

The warm scent seeps comfort through
the walls, meanders up stairs, into our dreams.
I conjure steaming pots of coffee.
Do the children dream of milk?
Your wordless love speaks to our stomachs,
which answer, without our knowing.
When the bread is done, and the timer has sung,
our eyes finally wake. Like a gift, it waits
on the range. The oven door an open mouth
greeting us. We huddle in its breath.
Sometimes we are grumps and say, “Another
bread!” But, if we tallied your love in bread,
we would be rich in love, rich like a bakery.

And then the butter! The melt, the spread,
the bread warming us from the inside.
You and I smile at each other across the table.
Rowan licks his lips. Rosabelle licks the drips
down her wrists. This is love! Yours for us.
At times, life is as simple as this.