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In my cupped hands full of reverence
I behold this scrap of bread.
One day I walked in air and sun so fine
I imagined my ancient bones could float
with early leaves and birdsong in the breezy
atmospheric stream of hours, skimming
tiptoe among rocks, onto rich ground,
tilled
then planted,
then time-and-weather-nurtured
until grain heads formed and turned
ripe. Harvest. Winnowing. Grinding.
Flour,
oil, water, salt, earthen bowl, wooden
spoon, kneading hands, oven heat,
each carries its own story, long
roots into dim reaches, linked
molecules from disparate parts
come now
as common food held in my hands
as I kneel in contemplation. Remember
how fish becomes heron, how rabbit
turns into fox, flesh and blood. How
could I doubt earth-born sacrifice, life
transformed: the sacred, sustaining gift.
I partake.