***
As the hot buckwheat-and-black-rye loaf
Runs the gauntlet from forno to table,
The bakerqueen is translating the music of dough
To the movement of floating grain flavour.
All of her body becomes what she bakes,
One ballerina alone in a theatre,
Yet, neck-deep in a slow ‘pas de deux’,
Even if just in her cygnine fantasy.
With the oven-fresh universe in her tulip palms,
The bakerqueen senses a Meal of Remembrance,
The hot bread beholds her armography at its best,
Brings her home, to her relic forebears.
Just before veiling the face of the loaf
In crisp cotton and squares of sweaters,
The bakerqueen seals the bread with the cross,
Takes a long breath – a childhood’s fragrance.
As the hot buckwheat-and-black-rye loaf
Runs the gauntlet from table to mouths,
The bakerqueen is receiving the loaf’s applause
Made by memory, hands, and love.
