Mix equal parts of audacity and indulgence
with a finely-spiked fork.
Ignore the rising mushroom clouds —
salty tears will tone those down.
Add a pinch of leaven,
sprinkle seasoned hope,
breathe deeply once or twice . . .
muse on risen dough.
Punch down the fears!
Roll high mountains into level plains,
Fill low valleys with seeds of ambition.
Dream of better days and finer years
reshaped by hands that pay the price
for naming pipe dreams,
and pointing out
the castles in the sand.
All that is left is to bake in hot fires
this dough molded to an ill-fitting pan.
The Unanswered Question:
But who will slide her in?