Just tall enough to see myself,
a blue-eyed reflection on a large metal bowl,
waist high to the magical woman
that raised me, and bread.
That now raised me onto the cool ceramic-tiled counter top,
to sit cross-legged,
Watch her floured hands
turn, knead, work that yeasty golden globe.
The same hands that mended the roof
when it leaked, and my heart when it cried.
Through the Nevada window, sunshine
buttered the flour air and afternoon
waited for dinner.
Mimicking the magic, I pound floured fists
into the sticky, smooth dough,
training my baby hands to raise
children and bread.