I’ve been trying to find the key

 to being alone
When I’m in the yard
In the illuminated morning
Cutting swathes of grass in arcing paths
Empty behind me
Or at night when in a bed
I’m too small for
I look for it in the puddles of light
On the ceiling
Of the quiet room
And I keep looking in the kitchen
Flexing and rolling with dough
That makes two loaves
One I know I will give away to the birds