In last night’s brief and interupted sleep
I dreamt of baking Christmas breads
with Mom. In the kitchen at Chase Lake,
surrounded by pines bent low by snow,

the hollow of the lake a frozen white.
In the silence of the season, we mixed
batter after batter, ladling it into
the large loaf pans that would be Christmas

breakfast, into small loaf pans to give
to neighbors. Mixing, pouring, baking,
cooling, again and again, all afternoon
while snow fell like icing sugar. 

On Christmas morning, we’d drink 
coffee, eat slices of banana bread,
pumpkin bread, cranberry orange bread
with butter or cream cheese.