a poem for the breadmaker
Luke is proven
as a breadmaker.
If he wasn’t before,
surely he is now.
We watched in awe:
One dutch-oven in the pit of open fire;
Twice the coal atop to bottom;
Fire-gloves and forceps on the iron.
He kept no time,
but drums of smoke from my Padron.
Instinct called for respiration checks,
A twist of the iron volte-face.
A time came and he felt he must cut in…
Nearly.
Back to the fire
for a few more drums.
We could smell the rosemary,
thick stalks like the fir-fell around us.
“It’s time”, he said,
and brought the ember bowl to the table.
We broke it, together, us three, and
drew it through camp-made chimichurri.
Then, all at once, we understood,
the story of baking and breaking bread.