I try to keep her skill alive,
now that those old hands are too cold
and still to knead,
this knowledge once passed down
through generations, stolen
by cheap convenience.
I still cut wood too
for winter, warms you
thrice she would say
once cut
once split
once burned
and I make a little cider
with five kinds of apples
and some crabapples
ground together and hand pressed.
But it’s her bread
that drives me crazy
I can’t quite get it right
maybe . . . .
maybe it was her wood stove
or the flour . . .
or maybe it just has something to do
with old hands and calluses.