The last of the bread bakes silently in the oven,
  as feelings stir warmly inside my heart

The smell and the aroma, an invitation to greatness,
  as the temperature rises—announcing I’m done

Loaves cook in the silence of a sweeter deliverance,
  letters rising as words, their meaning devours

The invitations to the meal have all been sent out,
and responded to

The cook may go home, the feast now leavened,
  has begun

(Telluride Colorado: 10:00 p.m. Sheridan Hotel, May, 1996, rewritten August, 2011)