This loaf I bake was once golden wheat
which harvested,
threshed then ground
made flour from ripened ears of blessing.

This cheese I churn was once milky froth
which with countless
turning first creamed then set
to hardened thickness of clotted health.

This wine I drink was once fruity grape
which trodden made
from flesh musty liquid
that time changed to nectar-rich pleasure.

This thanks I give was once humbly said
as harvest custom
so feasters could not forget
that abundance appears when heads bend.