poem poems

Cinnamon Bread

I think of you
while I make this bread.
The ingredients in the bowl,
the thoughts in my mind,
blending in perfect amounts
with fond movements...

The dough, adhering to my hands,
being part of me, is like feeling you,
without wanting to be free.
It concentrates my thoughts
on this romantic work
that now lies dormant,
in a ritual of waiting.

The raising, then the baking,
bring scents of cinnamon spreading
beyond the last crumb,
filling the house for days.
It remains the taste of you, following my paths,
keeping me company,
inviting me to breathe you deeply.




Poems: A page of Rosa Clement´s site
© (2003)