BY VALENTYNA HOLLOWAY
Raindrops on the last roses of summer,
the soft scent of petrichor blowing through
the open window. Slowly, rhythmically
adding ingredients, memory of a moment
creeping in as my fingers knead the dough
beginning to form under my fingers. Tears
well in my eyes as I remember fragments
of something I wrote of while baking before.
Words of love written in pure intent. The
sky begins to clear as my hands fumble
with the bread, it’s not perfect, neither am I,
I won’t profess to be. I am broken, scarred,
fragile, as frail as the petals that cling to the
purple blooms and I don’t know how to convey
what I am feeling inside. The words refuse
to come out. The scent of baking bread
permeates the air as I am mesmerised
watching the dough rise and turn colour.
The things I want to tell You escaping my
fingers in letters I will never give You. There
would never be a right time. I worry You
would brush them off anyway. I take the bread
from the oven and set it by the window to cool.
All I can think of is how I want to share this
with You. Words written with unwilling fingers,
sacred words penned for You that fall unceasingly
from my heart, even though the syllables feel
unappreciated. I set the table, longing to share
the bread with You but unable to say it. Instead
I look out the window at the garden listening to
mellifluous birdsong causing an unwanted smile.
Unconsciously turning to thoughts of You and
teardrops from Heaven on unsuspecting roses.