One made with suffering
we may savor
the bread we have made.
Some risen to our expectations,
something sweet or sour
a taste
we may try to remake, repeat
the recipe, grain by grain
we never attain the same
indulgence
again. Anticipation
of the past
becomes stale,
may mold,
does not keep
nourishment.
Even as the oven heats steady,
the smell creeps, our glands
salivate, our bellies rumble, our eyes
witness a gold encrusting,
awaiting
what may be
more satisfying
than the last bite.
Like catching on,
which is not fishing
for
dreams, desires, the plans
of slippery silver streaks
eluding us
just beneath the surface
A world, not ours, a place
that would drown us
if we wish to linger too long.
The one that got away,
the one that was bigger than we say,
the fish that passed the lure
you set,
the dream nibbling on the bait
and swam the other way.
Only today,
the hunger, not having,
not caught-
up, cool to the touch
feels more than
fulfilling.
Artwork by Charles Jacque( (1813-1894), c. 1835 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
