She teaches me salt, yeast, turning dough on the board.
She tells me of a coming renewal: the fields have been fallow
as the Lord's Word commands. Seeds have been resting
for the soil to rebirth itself. But nothing's happened yet.
Her hair's still uncut. She's been taken in hand,
her lengths twisted into a bun so soft I want to sin
and touch it. She glides beneath her long skirt.
Her little son's Stetson fits like a crown.
Like-minded ones live all over: Vermont, Arizona, the Dakotas.
Some fled to Canada so they could beat their children in peace.
But she'll do this to me every time: offer the good bread,
a taste that tells of all that could be easy,
a feast that fills what the world leaves empty.
So what if she serves the men and boys first.