Though I call this waiting,
the bread does not.
In the bowl, the wild yeast feeds
on the complex sugar of wheat.
What it cannot eat, it breaks down
to release whatever is trapped
in the bonds of starch. It is divined.
An unfolding cache. The perfect habitat
for a hunger. S. exiguus. Lactobacillus
brevis. Lactobacillus plantarum.
Oh the slow work of leavening, of helping
things rise, of allowing the fullest flavors
to come. In the meantime, I gather light
and feast on sacred texts that October writes
in inks of gold and crimson red. I lose
the boundaries of day and night.
The body, refreshed, slowed down, bends
and deeply folds, expands again in a spell
of disappearing bones. I am not willing
to call this waiting anymore.