Melting Point

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that daily bread will really be waiting in the morning.

This poem was first published in June by Calla Press: Melting Point

Photo by Antoine Vidal de La Blache on Unsplash

Melting Point

He tarried at the hem 
of it all melting 

back hunched beneath 
the weight of his wondering 

if those leavened flakes 
would forever be falling— 

he sits fixed at the slit
eyes in their twitching

broken body bent  
in the ballast of waiting 

limp muscles drained 
in the dry desert dawning

til awakened again
by the spill of a breading

after the midnight sweats
still soaked his bedding—

his silence listened
to drops of lost blessing

drowned by the thuds 
of his own thoughts grumbling

of hands that tired 
in the gleaning and rubbing; 

but as morning retreated
with another sun’s waxing

his stomached need
stretched to the opening 

and with rainy eyes 
he gaped again gazing  

at the provision gifted,
yet grieved by the waning—

for doubt is still fed 
during a midday melting

though goodness is given
each plentiful morning.