My mother, in the final years of her life,
finally in the small farmhouse
she had dreamed of her whole life,
with a flock of chickens to feed,
and an old, shabby farmhouse kitchen,
spent a glorious year or two
kneading dough and baking bread
and cinnamon buns,
that rose on the wings
of her satisfied dreams
and fed her family.
"How I love it when you roll
into the driveway!" she'd exclaim.
"You think everything is funny!"
She had given up on her dream,
but here it was, unexpectedly:
little hobby farm, with a pond,
a horse in the pasture,
and deer wandering through.
She cooked up a storm till that last year,
when her eyesight and her health
began fading fast
and she took to her bed.
I found her bread recipe the other day,
written in her by-then huge but still flowing script: Bread.
And it's a funny thing.
I can measure and mix and knead
till the chickens come home to roost,
but I can't get that darned bread
to rise as it did for her,
in that white and brown kitchen on Plested Road,
where dream and reality merged
for a few too-short, precious, golden years.
for Grace's prompt at dVerse: Bread