Sunday’s
pleasure
dense slabs
of still-warm German rye
sacrilege
with nuts and cranberry
ripped and
dipped
into bowls
of thick winter soup
bleed into
Monday
morning.
Two slices
cut thin
tucked into
a prized British toaster
smaller
than a Mini Cooper
until walnuts
just singe.
Hand-molded
Beurre de Baratte,
French for fatty,
salty, hedonistic
preciousness
recklessly slathered
without remorse.
Hoarded
tangerine marmalade
from Guru
Ram Das Orchard
grown with
hippy sunshine and platitudes
moans when
unscrewed,
precursing wabi sabi ecstasy
of imprecisely chopped skins
the
sweet-sour fragrance of young girlishness.
Sea salt to
finish.
The bread
singing now,
its flavors
the high notes of a fermented symphony
resounding
against the acoustic ceiling
of my
palate
melodious
Monday morning
toast.
#bread #toast #breakfast