Gold fades to black
as if the baker slept and burnt the bread
and then, if that weren’t bad enough,
the fire went dead.
And while the dark and cold
of loneliness crests
and froths tsunami-like
above his village,
He sits down to eat with friends,
Nero-like in disquieting
He tears at bread. “I’m torn
He rips at the loaf that’s warm and hollow
enough for a tap
to reveal it was finished.
The empty in-between defines
the shape of things.
The rising golden warmth says
you’re home at any hearth.
Then he drains the skin, the heart
about spent, emptied, divided
and walked between.
He says his thanks, and pours a drink,
reminding the cup of it’s purpose:
to be full and always
to be emptied–the perfect
offered to the thing that breaks it.
“I’m giving me to taking you.
Your hungry bowl, my angry cup;
your cup of wine, my empty bowl.
My wine delayed
until my home
is warmed again”.
This bowl of time stopped
at the rim
its surface holding history back–
not like glass, which keeps us from
the things we’re looking at,
but like wine, which is like blood,
which they say is thicker than water,
which could tell you a thing or two
for a tilt of the planet
to hold the wave aloft.
for the bread to rise,
and the cup to fill and
hoping, remembering …
that home is where the hearth is,
and if that weren’t good enough,
the fire still has life in it.
And the meal calls us back to the table.