After the Kneading

After the Kneading

(“However, for this cause I obtained mercy, that in me first, Jesus Christ might display all his patience…” 1 Timothy 1:16a)

How long does it take for darkness to unfurl,
for the taste of violent cuisine to roll off our tongues
into loaves from the earth baked in the noonday sun?

We used to let the elders take the front of the line
in our potlucks and banquets,
with unaccompanied minors right behind.
In that thin place between age and innocence we
hoped
prophetic purity might arise.

Time (that place unmeasured except by planetary motion)
outpaces our lusts and unmade faces until
we are dissatisfied again by the meager fare
of private meals where with little love and less challenge
we eat by ourselves.

But bread is meant to be prepared with muscled hours,
rising after the kneading like a carnival balloon.
Bread is meant to be shared with all who detected
the aroma of the afternoon, arriving to a circle of
friends for a repast near evening.

Some bring guitars, some bring songs,
some read poetry, some play along,
some limp in slowly, others tumble like clowns,
some take off their shoes, some make the rounds
and hug every neck, high and low, telling
the same jokes they’ve told one hundred times before.
Still everyone laughs; maybe everyone snickers.

We’ve been around the block a few times,
some have even met each other in the ring;
some have had words with each other more times
than you would believe,
but that is why they share the bread which redefines
argument and apologetic from winning and sinning
to singing and ringing the dinner bell with the
screen door wide open and the wine already poured.

There is a banquet, there is a picnic,
and if you get confused, just watch the dragonflies play
and hear the echoes of the frogs in the damp grass

And sit with us a spell, sing with us a prayer (even
with your mouth full). Stuffed and sleepy we’ll end
the day, but will wait for the very last vagabond
who always arrives much too late.