For Boxing day.
Because . . .
The water's there.
The yeast is, too.
The sugar, eggs and oil.
A pinch of salt.
Some scoops of flour.
A spot of manual toil.
Then there it sits.
A work of art.
A dough that's fine and ready.
Just waiting for
The final touch.
The hand that's firm and steady.
It starts to rise.
Increase and grow.
Progressing, moving on.
Then nears the top
Success so close,
Then, suddenly, it's gone.
That hand so sure
That works with care
Deflates all it's achieved.
And in a blink
All progress seems
Impossible to believe.
Again it tries.
Again it grows.
E'en lighter than before.
Again that hand,
Again the push,
The dough is flat once more.
A third time tries.
A third time grows.
Now tasty and perfected.
Achieves at last
It's sought-for goal,
No flaws or faults detected.
At times I feel
Much like this dough.
My progress interrupted.
When wiser hands,
Press me to my knees,
All dreams and goals disrupted.
But praying hard,
I realize
Though setbacks are in store,
I rise each time,
A better me
Than e're I was before.
