When these summer squalls have subsided,
I will reap the kernels of my discontent.
bushel by bushel,
I will harvest my wistful fields
until they are barren of want, and come fall,
I will take my troubles to the mill.
lined-up and counted,
I will bake them in the sun,
and when they are dry,
I will grind them with a stone salvation.
under a December sky,
I will bleach them with a mild amnesia
so they are as white and soft as springtime snow.

Then, baker befriended these kneaded woes will rise--and this time,
I will feast on the bread of my shortcomings.