Baking bread isn’t what it used to be:
We are learning together.
You examine the pizza dough and say:
“It’s risen.” You are as confident
as the faithful gathered on Easter Sunday
to celebrate the Resurrection.
I am the skeptic. I touch the dough,
still flat as a thick pancake,
and finger the crevices of the dough
like Thomas touching the hand
of Jesus. We leave the dough
to rise again, or proof. Perhaps
we will add rosemary, fragrant
and slightly bitter, to flavor the dough.
Our lives entwine with broken berries
of wheat, and bruised rosemary,
as we prepare the table
and anoint the dough with oil.
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It’s our shallowness of preparing for Easter Sunday. We are not enough like Thomas to question our faith. Your poem “Bread” stirs us to think about the resurrection of Jesus.