It’s not like baking bread
from grannie’s recipe or shaping
and assembling furniture.
It’s more like the tracking of a deer
or catching a fish – the application
of a randomly accumulated expertise,
recognizing favorable conditions,
combing likely environs.
It’s like the setting of a hook,
the ensuing improvisation,
gauging the familiar give and take
before landing the prize.
And then, maybe, offering it to the fisher of men,
Who, along with some of those methodically
baked loaves, may use it to feed the multitudes
or, maybe, not. It’s no concern of mine,
lying belly full on a hillside, drowsy with wine,
my allotment taken off the top,
my Beloved’s form in full view,
His voice a sweetness in my ears.
O child of God, be ever vigilant for bread, wine
and that sudden, sharp tug upon the line.