by Marcus Colasurdo

The aroma, first, is of bread.
The slow spin and knead of dough,
  the blended rendering of flour and water
and something more-
brought together under two women’s
strong hands: 
   come grain
   come rye
   come what may,
it is the aroma
  that rises high to the nose.
Behind the steamed stretch
     of soft glass,
two women work the shiny
                      steel bowls,’
mixing all spice and pumpkin shake
  into a cluster of Edenic apples,
half moons of first fruit
   dusted and tossed,
jiggled and soft lobbed
just so slightly airborne
suspended one long
 slow motion second
before they plop drop
back down
   into the fragrant craters of early
morning creation.

 A work table away,
  the dough is being pinched
to a crust,
 gently scoured and imprinted
upon its edges with fork-tines:
 carefully
 gradually
maybe a wee bit 6 am whimsically
but always with a jeweler’s concentration-
the same that’s used
to put a sugar gardenia
   on a cupcake’s chocolate hat
named for an Easter -time saint
 that only children know how say prayers to.

the aroma..
   it is everywhere here,
in the tick of the clock,
the rustling of newspapers
the wind chimes at the door.
It is of mixed berries settling
   upon  a proud pastry amphitheater-
 a sweet shell filling
   with vanilla ivory,
with blooming blueberry
with fat-dappled strawberry,
with wise- wrinkled cranberry
announcing a holiday.
Ah..   
The sight here is the aroma’s twin,
   a peachy-cheeked sibling
  that makes my belly dance
   just watching
these women work the goo
   of fancy-bush earth..
and for this one moment,
I am as certain as I have
ever
been of anything-
that all days should begin
 just this way:
with a shout of
hallelujah
    on my tongue.