Bun in the Oven

We all start the same way — mostly —
buns in the oven, proofing and rising,
but for me, not just a resting place,
my culinary beginnings, my birth, my crumb
elastic and moist, growing with structure,
held formed and tight by a golden crust
hard with experience and knowledge
the artisan in me, captured in a loaf
a dozen hot-cross buns, spiced warm
of cinnamon, zest, sweet candied fruit,
a brioche of air laden with butter,
you walk into the room and know, me,
know I’m there, in your every breath,
I’m childhood, happiness, comfort,
an ever carried memory, preserved.

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).

Today’s prompt: Day Fourteen: “Today’s challenge is a fun one: write a poem that takes the form of the opening scene of the movie of your life. Does it open with a car chase? A musical number? A long scene panning across a verdant plain? You’re the director (and also the producer, the actors, the set designer, the cinematographer, and the lowly assistant that buys doughnuts for the crew) – so it’s all up to you!”