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.