She bakes bread
Each fall
After the first frost,
Clutching the long thin
Handle of the wooden spoon
So hard her knuckles
Go red
Veins thick along each
Finger as she stirs,
Working up the batter
Into a fitful froth
Until it is too thick
To beat,
Taking it out with
Both hands,
She molds it into
A long thick loaf,
Her hands are strong hands,
Gripping it tight as she kneads
Each finger pressing deep
Into the soft dough
Until she makes it hard,
Too tough to knead,
She stuffs it into her oven,
Where the deep heat
Makes it rise,
Makes it perfect.
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