For years I’ve known you turning flour into dough,
turning dough into beautifully risen breads or biscuits,
all of your rings in a neat little pile
as you press your palms into the mounds of dough,
flour dusting your forearms and apron.
Years ago, I learned to dry flowers from you-
gently tie the stems to a hanger
for a week or maybe longer
as moisture slowly bleeds away.
Hangers are set like ornaments in any sunned space
as each petal deepens in tone- pinks leaning toward magentas, reds becoming burgundy or the shade of merlot.
I’ve seen the way you’ve lit up when something is ignited inside of you.
I’ve seen the way you’ve crumbled when a fire goes out,
swept away the ashes and then learned how to glow again.
I’ve seen all the ways in which you are human without shame
and I have learned from you to cry.
And through all the years, I’ve seen the innumerable things you’ve cared for-
all the little children, your husband, your plants, the lambs you’ve raised and all the hens, your brother and mother and father, your many sisters, your creations, yourself.
I’ve learned from you to turn twigs to art
and that if you plant something
in the right soil, at the right time, anything can be grown.
I’ve learned from you to have every dream.
I’ve learned from you to be proud.
And whether you are kneading dough, drying roses
or teaching clumsy lambs to drink from its mother as it learns to latch,
you are seeding and spreading both love and life
like the wildest of flowers.
You know this-
everything you do, you grow from,
like a sprout lifting and bending towards the sun,
like the water of a river finding it’s way home to an ocean.
I am at home with you,
as you go on kneading dough and baking breads-
each motion filled with love and intention and all of your beauty.