Rising in the morning
like warm bread,
from a bed
in America,
the aroma
of my baking
reaches you
in Italy,
rocking in your boat
near the Ponte Longo,
cutting through the glitter
of yesterday’s moonlight
on your sunstruck
canal.
My delicious baker—
it is you
who have made
this hot bread
rise.
It is you
who have split the loaf
and covered it with the butter.
I prayed to the moon
streaking the still lagoon
with her skyblue manna;
I prayed for you
to sail into my life,
parting the waters,
making them whole.
And here you come,
half captain, half baker—
& the warm aroma of bread
crosses
the ocean
we share.