Increasingly, I find myself accountable to yeast.
I'm kneaded and folded by hands too tired to rest on the keyboard.
Honey oat and vegan avocado call to me with a voice that sounds like home,
but that was never my home.
The wafts of freshly baked embraces are a cultural memory
implanted by the white picket fences I've yet to see in person.
So I substitute,
I darn over the holes of missing traditions with
weekly practice in homely creation.
It's a glutenous trap of the homemade variety.
