(yeast)

My fingers smell like
yeast.
Though I have not
made bread
all year.
No doubt last night’s
pizza, with the whole
wheat honey crust.
I meant to,
mean to still,
make bread that is.
I think of it on Monday
when I pick up
our three loaves
for the week,
of how I could
save Her
from those
cellophane bags.
Mostly that,
though the smell
of baking bread
figues in
to the vision,
– that and
the utter
purity
I dream of
in my life.

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