The mill’s grinding orbs press and bite the grain
chewing and rubbing between the turning stones
husks vent up into the North where the air is dry
then lifts it on a spiralled dance then to lie,
a fine gritty veil drawn over land once verdant and much loved.
You there in the North, come back to the South
where the flour waits for the baker’s hand
the leavening for the sweet kiss of heat and time
The best bread is made with a firm hand and a blasting heat,
so let us break bread together
leave the tooth of the stones to grind another’s grain
and let love lie in open fields
for a gentler softer rain.