Making, Baking

I tell you these things because I have a voice
that itches in my throat,
scratching to get out into the big, beautiful world.
The soul of the Earth bubbles up
beneath my surface
and the laughter breaks through.
These stories have lives all their own, like
whole families shopping with Walt Whitman
at night in grocery stores
across California.
We each have the same urges to get out there.
Let us move west
until we end back at home
and find our bed is just as lovely and warm
as when we left there.
Maybe the moral of the story
is to stop moving.
Sit still and silent,
savoring the succulence of being stationary.
That is my standpoint.
This is my stomping ground.
As mountains prove true,
I, too, need not move –
– for the molten lava
below
churns my buttery crust for me,
baking me to that perfect crisp.
Ding! I’m done.

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