Buttered

Bread by hand is baked
in oven, tapped out gently,
further cooling, placed in storage,
bagged and ready, then is toasted
days and after, to a crisp
and even browning;

Edges blackened,
flash of silver knife is peeling
curls of butter loose from glass jar,
lying gently side by side
on sizzling surface, act of magic,
solid/liquid, freely flowing
into puckers, cut in quarters;

Teapot whistling, time is ticking
in the dance of daily ritual,
now and then the mood is settling,
moving forward, life revealing
many things, while morning
streams its sweet elixir
from which springs the chilly burst
that winter brings.

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