They don’t make love
so she makes bread –
spends long nights sifting,
gently placing peaks in her silent landscape.

She dozes lightly, till it’s time
to rise from the cool sheets
and share the dough’s warmth.

Kneading the swelling mass
she soothes and shapes,
folds and forms:

Buxom cottage loaves;
petit pain – the tops slit, just so;
rustic ciabatta, starred with olives,
and fleshy baguettes.

She brushes his arm with soft hands,
returns his smile,
as she watches him break bread.

Carole Houlston

If you've any comments on this poem, Carole Houlston would be pleased to hear from you.