The mill stone turns and grinds to powder grain
the meadows wore a harvest month ago.
The cloud condenses drops to send us rain
our reservoirs collect and then let flow.
There comes a winter-boding Saturday
when I combine the water and the flour.
I knead December vigor in that paste,
and let the magic work a kitchen hour.

And just as there’s in leaves a miracle
of transmutation, firing elements
to sugar with a flash of chlorophyll,
so magical seem paste ingredients
that worked become a staff of life instead,
for I turn flour-water into bread.

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