a flash before sunrise

It is nearly dawn. I lit a vanilla stick, waiting for the sunrise, while the bakers dozens in the ovens downstairs release that burgeoning smell of morning, reminding me that cinnamon is a flavour of beginnings as much as it is of memories baking - hot days sipping iced tea, and the freezing evenings when spice and stewed apple kept me warm inside.

You and me could break a bread metaphor. Lattice plaits are woven downstairs as I write, and it is sexual, this weave of threading, whether it is in story, or the wrapping of soft doughy whiteness into shapes of interlaced, mouth-watering fertility.

A baker's dozen, that one extra I'll bring home, just in case you come. If there is ever sadness in my voice it is because love just wants to share simple things, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

It's all energy. When I see your face in the poppy seed roll, it is because I love you, each seed, counting each time this past year I have heard your name tumble from floury lips.

The sun is up, and there's nothing I can do to change that either.