I didn’t write a poem yesterday.
I baked a loaf of bread,
and listened to the world turning.
I spiced the dough with chili paste,
and left the kitchen door open -
to smell the rain better.
I shaped it into a dome,
just as a rod of sunlight pierced the cloud
and stabbed the ground like a spear.
Later, waiting for the dough to swell,
its fecund belly, pale and smooth,
I sipped Earl Grey tea from a bone china mug.
Then while the oven did its work,
I settled easily into my place and listened
some more to the world as it turned.