Bread

		There are some rules
		for baking bread
		that I might use
		for poems instead.
		I start with clear, warm water,
		(perhaps a vague idea)
		then add three s's:
		shortening, salt, and sweet,
		in careful measure
		(and what might they be?)
		image, idea, and emotion perhaps.

		The leavening, I think,
		intuits,
		and the flour, light or dark,
		once only grist
		for someone's mill,
		gives shape and form,
		resisting frequent folds
		and right hand heel:
		(expansion of my thoughts).

		Punch down first rise,
		releasing air
		then final shape for second rise,
		(revision if you choose)
		with love and firmness.

		I bake it quickly
		on high heat
		(my critic peers provide)
		as out of sight it grows
		in measured minutes.

		Finally, I lift the loaf,
		admire its crispy crust,
		and thump for hollow sounds
		that signal hidden beauty
		beyond the golden hues
		where I must search
		to find the truth.