Fresh Bread

I start to write

And stop..many times

I am not waiting for words.

Every time my pen starts a letter

A whole paragraph almost completes and ends in my head

And I restart..

So many words are trying to fill

The many nooks and crannies of my self ..

as the self shifts..grows expands

through cuts…

I am reminded of my grandma baking bread.

After all the pulling together..kneading ..smoothing ..of the dough ball.

Just before it is put inside the oven

She would ‘cut’ the dough ball in a few places..

I would wince at the breaking of the smooth exterior and wonder ..

Why?

I know now..

It is to help the bread grow into those cuts.

Without them the bread would just burst.

I wait till the words can change shape

And be patient

And wet and soft

The cuts are still raw.

The aroma of fresh bread

Soon.

Rhea