Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
Content with the aromas flickering from the bread itself, she began to peel it apart into smaller fragments, then rolled them into thinner pieces, elongating the dough along the counter. The question didn’t stop her, though there was some measure of pause in her movements, before starting again, placing more flour across a particular spot. “This bread was my sister’s favorite.” She blinked several more times, and then nodded, as if adjusting her own measure of importance and skill, mastering the grief.
After the second application, she began to twist the pieces of dough together, so they looked like a makeshift braid, adjusting the thickness and span accordingly. “There,” she announced, proud of her work, and went to slide it along a greased pan, and then into the oven. “How is yours coming along?”
After the second application, she began to twist the pieces of dough together, so they looked like a makeshift braid, adjusting the thickness and span accordingly. “There,” she announced, proud of her work, and went to slide it along a greased pan, and then into the oven. “How is yours coming along?”
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
