"for the joy of a fire-crackled crust"

"for the joy of a fire-crackled crust"
for Jenn
~L. Page

fraught with all the wild extremes/of tango and of tribal rush/to borrow from such frantic dreams/as of death's violence robbing blush/

nursing hands and healing touch/she poured her soul into their lives/giving grace when they could not/and thirty years went coursing by/

after a while, her daily pace/had taken an unforgiving turn/as the dancing from bed and face/brought grief and a crushing yearning/

for something soft, without demand/as restoration for the years/of dying children, and blood-stained/gauze, and wives' and mothers' tears/

her deliverance didn't come from/an expected source, as such,/just a need for solitude, some/might criticize the redeeming batch/

of bread when first she built with brick/her own oven, and began to mix/recipes to steal the senses, quick/aromas to fill the dimly lit kitchen/

at first each loaf became a story/as the luscious, tender flavors/melted away people's horrors/bringing nearly divine pleasure/

then, increasingly, as her own heart/was being healed by hours/left alone with grains and starch/and spices rich with yesteryear/

she found a patron here, then there/and bit by bit she came to see/as local farmers supplied their wares/she'd started her own bakery/

a new pace set from rush to waltz/forsaking wealth for just enough/she left behind her three decades/for the joy of a fire-crackled crust

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle