The bread that I made
morsel after morsel missed your mouth
and so all this kneading and knifing
came to this crumb in the mud trodden garden.
The wheat that grew
the yeast that rose
the days and days spent
like silver coins that tremble in your pocket
grains and grains from the silo to the mill
fall to this sparrow to eat
all beak and instinct
combing and combing through the world for edibles
and our crumb turns to wingbeats
wind in the trees and dust-throwing breeze.