by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She had forgotten
how to make the bread,
how it had to feel
just right
before she laid it down
to rest.
She had forgotten
how to walk and talk
until
the old nurse came
to her at midnight
and pulled her
from her nightmare dream,
doing the work
of a true healer.
She had to relearn
the little things,
the simple things—
like how to make bread:
how to make the bread dough
feel like a baby’s skin
when it is ready
to rest and do its work—
like a baby feels
when you lay it down
to sleep
to do its work
of growing.
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