Sourdough

I had a piece of sourdough this morning -

it was anything but sour,

or doughy.

It’s crispy, but somehow fluffy;

simple, but not that easy;

and simply,

the simplest yet most delicious

piece of bread.

And I have it daily.

But today, it was a little different -

perhaps it was the carb crash from

one piece too many;

instead of moving on with my day,

I just stood there and stared at the

rest of the loaf.

I thought about how it got here -

from the raw flour and the starter

that always needs feeding,

to the steady rise

after the intense mixing and shaping.

I thought about all the stretching

and folding

it had gone through

before proofing

and scoring

and then enduring

the heat

of the 450-degree oven,

maturing -

Just to come out fresh

and forget about

all the resting

that is needed

before the slicing.

I stared at the rest of the loaf,

then I stared at the oven.

I thought about how I sometimes

see my own reflection

when I look inside.

They say the sourdough

is a living process.

And I have it daily.