Cinnamon Toast

I went through an absurd number of drafts for the haiku in the last post, and still didn't manage to do any sort of justice to the glorious confection that is cinnamon toast.


simplest of all foods,
yet a metaphor for life:
life as it should be.

Basking in the glowing warmth of smiles, something finished sits in contemplation.
Bread already baked. Before that: kneaded, shaped, raised, then proofed.
Sliced for sandwiches or fresh warm munching, bread is what it meant to be.
But now, lowered into a second careful baking, this slice is heated to its center,
infused with thoughts of summer wheat and sky. It waits patiently, thoughtful.
Both sides are tightened to a crispy white, then a delicate and beautiful brown.
A click marks the time, clear indication of perfection reached, of completion.
The kitchen watches, awed, as the newly toasted delicacy rises quick as flight.
Confident. Sure. Full of purpose, with a powerful spring in its ascending steps.
Swift spreading of butter softens its features and bestows a pleasant generosity,
quick to accept a sprinkling from above, fair admixture of sweet and flavor both.
One must begin at the edges, tasting the boundaries of wealth and crumb and crust.
Then, limits defined and accounted for, circumspection satisfied, doubts done away,
one may savor the lovely essence, the center, the heart of this distillation of joy.