A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

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I place a thought

Hastily scribbled

On my wall.

My display of ingredients

To be kneaded and churned

Into the best bread to be baked

To feed to the world.

Are the ingredients still good

Even after they’ve been covered

By so much dust?

I like to think, in the case of age,

Bread is most similar to wine.

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