In my mother’s hands
these are the elements:
flour, water, yeast, salt
all else is embellishment.
How many loaves in a lifetime
of baking with these hands
too twisted now to knead any more,
but I learned well at her side:
stretch, fold, press, turn:
elemental dance of hands and dough,
over and over and over and dust
the countertop with flour, keep
dough from sticking, the rhythm
that rocked from her heels up hips
into her shoulders and down
through forearms into capable
hands, full weight of her body
leaning into this living substance
becoming elastic, becoming
leavened, and a pinch should feel
as firm as an earlobe, soft
as a toddler cheek, growing
into loaf, into food, into staff
of life, and she is growing ancient,
growing stiff and I have taken
over at the countertop
to stretch, fold, press, turn
over and over and over and teach
my children who are growing too,
keep the tradition alive, the embodied
rhythm of generations, to knead
this dough from our heels on up
through our hands into the promise
of bread, the promise
to feed each other,
need each other.