Poem by Roula Pollard
WHEN MY MOTHER BAKES BREAD
My mother has planted many trees
in her courtyard, some prayer trees, too.
The older one, she calls caring with kindness.
Early morning, she collects brilliant dawn colors.
Then she bakes bread from organic, ancient wheat
puts the loaves in an old fashion oven heated by charcoal
and feeds the beggars in the neighborhood, feeds her soul.
All countries have beggars, homeless people with diaphanous
heart, fed on bread and bread crumbs like doves, of hope.
Beggars also entrust care from God, for their
daily bread, and their spiritual feeding.
Some trees, she calls “prayers”.
Every day before dawn
before baking bread
my mother selects her words
like rainbows from heaven, washes her mouth
with lippia citriodora tea, cleanses her tongue with mint
leaves and basil, kneels on the earth’s floor and whispers
sentences like “I am grateful, thank You, my God, for the bread of Your daily love, Your water of strength,
Your spring of patience,
Your endless blessings”.
© Roula Pollard
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