Monday, May 16, 2005

Kneading

Kneading,kneading,kneading,
Fluffy comes the bread.
The type of bread you can smell from afar
Or even in the future its scent so clings.
To each fiber and thread
And molecule of air.

Just a dash of olive oil
And honey from tiny drones.
It will grow into a living creature
Writhing on the table and set to boil.
And though it never moans,
As any newborn it is pure.

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