Bakery

The morning’s bakery is a silent one.

And the sun is the humblest of bakers,

but soft stirrings of lemon-cream light

kiss the curtains, and tenderness teases

the soul awake:

lifting, rising

in the warmth (the quiet promise)

of a pure stillness that melts

on the tongue.

Notes of honey, round droplets

of the softest, slowest gold

flow like day across patient, waking hills

across eyelids pale,

and faces turned toward dreams.

Yellow and white,

clouds of flour and air

grey earls the color of sleep.

The sun blushes,

dressed in tufts of powdered sugar,

but the soul is stirring,

and the breathing

is deep.

Golden clouds
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Steel

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Souls