Leavened Bread

There isn’t time for leavened bread to rise,
the soldier’s fists are pounding on the door.
We wipe the crusts of sleep from sleepy eyes

and look around us, bleak but unsurprised:
“We have to go now.” Wanting to say more—
there isn’t time.
For leavened bread to rise

there must be time. There must be peace. The sighs
of yeasty breath from tender loaves, before
we wipe the crusts.
Now sleep, from sleepy eyes

in children’s faces, runs away. The skies
are dark. We’re full of doubt, but one thing’s sure:
there isn’t time for leavened bread. To rise,

oh God, to rise from bed and realize
yesterday’s home is now a hostile shore!
We wipe the crusts of grief from sleepless eyes

and pack what we can bear. It must suffice.
Whatever else the future has in store
pray God for time, that leavened bread may rise
and we wipe crusts of grief from weeping eyes.

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