Bread for the Birds

Bread for the Birds

Miriam Riad

Stale,
Like a loaf of sourdough
I forgot to eat.
I feel guilty,
Wasting the daily bread
I was given.

I stare at the stony crust,
The stiff slice
Wondering what can be done with it.
Maybe French toast? Bread pudding?
Croutons?

I microwave a bit of it on high, 30 seconds,
To see if that will soften it up.
It does, but strangely, so that it
Is almost congealing.
I wrinkle my nose.

Some things can’t be salvaged;
It’s time for something new.
I set the rock-hard loaf on the porch
For the birds and squirrels
To squabble over.

I turn my back to the fray
And roll up my sleeves.
Soon, I am elbow deep in flour,
Soon, I am delighted by fresh
Spongey, stringy dough.
Soon, the comforting smell
Of newness engulfs the kitchen.

I hold my mug of chamomile as it bakes,
Glance out the window.
The stale bread is gone—
Feathers float where it had sat.
I am glad it fed someone.

I peek through the oven door,
Enthralled by
The readiness of bread.
Always present—
The invitation to come and feast.

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Miriam Riad
Writer & Teacher

Miriam is a public school teacher, writer, and former book editor. She is the author of 28 by 29: A Year of Writing, a short collection of essays and poetry. You can find more of her work at miriamriad.com 

Photography by Vladimir Bolotskov