A Life of Practice

Baking bread since 1976
'soon I will be a beginner' I say

if there is a summit I might ignore it
this is a life of practice.

The perfect loaf is eaten
the next day
I begin again with flour salt water and yeast

occasionally I bake a door stop, cinder block,
or an exhausted molten pond of sourdough

'There is no bad bread when its home made,' my husband reminds me
and slices the loaf neatly on his jig-saw.

and I begin again

Our ancestors knew bread was sacred
The crumbs, born again
bread pudding, French toast, meatloaf.

and favorite shirts worn out
became patches in a quilt

be sentimental about this life
it is all about practice



It doesn't take much but it does take some

Having grown up in a circus family
with sword-swallowing sister

Fire-eating Father

trapeze brother
Somersaulting Mother

I ran away from the spotlight

alone in my room
I am content with a cup of tea and a book
of poems

after spending the day walking
with my dog