Making Sandwiches

I wake in the hour of ghosts, alongside the songs of owls & swim through la mer d’etoiles to the bakery The door rings at my entrance, flour coats the table like sand. Culled fresh les champs de blé for the bakery Loaves are rolled then scored thrice in the plentiful, cinnamon air. Ovens hot as le desert de l’amour at the bakery Mother’s buy loaves in the hour of dawn, freshly baked, for children’s lunches to be eaten at tables d’amitié. In the bakery, with flour-soaked hands, my heart beats sparrowquick at the thought of my bread enjoyed dans le jardin des enfants O, blessed to work at the bakery.