I see you.
First to arrive, last to leave.
You start in the dark, while the world still sleeps.
Your hands, sore from mixing, kneading, shaping, baking.
I see it.
The bread you make, broken over a table.
The central element, a family staple.
Torn and toasted, sliced and fried.
Smothered in butter, it satisfies.
Don’t forget.
It’s ok, to take from the table you bake for.
To enjoy the fruits of your labour.
To lay down that apron, to say what you came for.
Take, tear, receive.
This is your feast to eat.
