bread on the table

the bread
rises in the oven.
I flick on the light and watch
the heat
do it's thing.
a simple thing.
a small
good thing as the sun
settles
beyond
the city.
the room fills up
with the scent of baked
bread.
the calmness of it all.
the taste of it
in warm slices
on the tongue,
a wealth
of butter atop
each piece,
cut or torn.
out the window,
the sky gone blue
in darkness, but there is
this,
fresh bake bread
on the table.