I can feel the dough beneath my fingers <br />press into the crevices of my hand. <br />I knead and pound, the way my mother did <br />and my grandmother before her, <br />forcefully ravaging the mixture of <br />flour, sugar, and yeast <br />to produce the sweet bread. <br /> <br />The recipe is known well to me, <br />a tradition I can remember, manifest <br />and taste. <br /> <br />Our history, though slightly distant here <br />is sensed in the aroma of Hallah, <br />and all the pounding. <br /> <br /> <br />All that is left, <br />all that one can do now, <br />is wait for the yeast to rise.<br /><br />Lauren Erimita<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiting-to-rise/
