Bread of Being

The bread of

my being is

made of

soft morning 

sunshine and of

soft blowing

air; of water from

a fresh, clear stream

and of the light

in the eye of

a newborn fawn.

The breath

of a honey bee

sweetens the

wheat that has 

been cracked and

ground and grown up

in a rich and loamy

soil.  It rises

ever so slowly

on the leavening

warmth of the

half light of the holler

and the rising full

moon.

It is kneaded,

ever kneaded with

open palms of wisdom;

damped again and

again with the tears

of sorrow, tears of joy.

Proofing in stillness

as the quiet grows

pockets of luscious

and succulent space

within the crust 

and the crumb of

my days.