Dough

In the bowl's soft embrace,
Flour and water meet,
A pale, yielding mound,
Waiting for the yeast's quiet hum.

Kneaded with patient hands,
It swells like a secret breath,
Golden crust promises,
Warmth that lingers on the tongue.

And when the oven sings,
The dough becomes bread,
A simple triumph of time and taste.