Gone are the days when I had the force
to pummel the dough into shape.
Gone are the days when the bread in the house
was all mine.
Now are the days of disaster, ageing bones
of fragile alabaster,
too frail for the weekly bake.
The bread that we eat now is plastic,
shaped by other hands.
The bread that we eat now
is not made by me
but by other people who don’t take such care,
loving the feel of live swelling food
rising to desirable altitude, light as air.
Gone are the days of gourmandise,
for the treat that’s mainly aroma,
bewitching the household with appetite
for good old-fashioned bread and cheese.
You’ll find other variations on the wordle here