The large kitchen is almost dark.
Across the plain of even, diffused light,
copper pans of the wall and the window geranium
tend separate campfires.
Herbs dangle their Spanish moss from rafters.
At the table, floury hands
kneading dough, feet planted
stead on flagstones,
a woman ponders the loaves-to-be.
Yeast and flour, water and salt,
have met in the huge bowl.
the baked and cooled and cut
bread she is thinking of,
but the way
the dough rises and has a life of its own,
not the oven she's thinking of
but the way the sour smell changes
She wants to put
a silver rose or a bell of diamonds
into each loaf,
to bake a curse into one loaf,
into another, the words that break
evil spells and release
transformed heroes into their selves,
she wants to make
bread that is more than bread.
by Denise Levertov