fresh bread

you think of
poems as
small loaves
of warm bread
that you are
baking daily,
and then
trying to leave
for her.
wherever she
might be. they
come right
out of the oven.
some sweet,
some sad, some
bitter and crusty,
but many just
meant to be read,
fresh bread
to be eaten, slowly,
to feel the warmth
in your hand,
your heart,
to be savored.
call it small
loaves of
lingering love,
toasted thoughts
of maybe,
some slices are
best served
with blackberry
jam, or butter, but
you decide that.