The monk who bakes bread
no longer believes in the measure-for-measure God of the recipe books,
has little faith, if any, in the predestined endings set forth by timers,
the finely sifted claims to inerrancy held by cups and spoons.
Blended to life, call his a leavened devotion to resurrection
appearing from within each cracked tomb of grain,
the hunger that presses his hands dawn after dawn,
deep into the just-risen flesh.
Cowl white as the flour he scoops, mixes,
forms pat pat into loaves shaped like naves,
it is his chest, filled with the invisible yeast of breath,
that knows by heart the patient kneading together of days,
how long love takes to rise.
Daniel Skach-Mills, American poet.
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