This Bread You Eat, This Poem You Digest

Photo courtesy of Hobbs House Bakery

Blue Hour

by Cheryl Pearson

Up before the hens, my daughter.
Just her and the cows in the blue hour.

Them tugged of milkweight and loosed
to steam like warm loaves in the cold air.

Her in an apron, hair pulled into a bun.
I know how she works: the way she takes

the dough’s wet slack, punches it down
into flour.
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