Matzah

The bread rolls through my fingers

crumbs slowly swallowed up

by the bolus of the dough.

I roll it flat, transfer it to the oven -

the high heat blasts my face as I open the door,

hot enough for a burnt offering.

If I was the bread how would I feel?

The sudden rush of heat kissing me

like an ecstatic shock,

complete transformation.

Not an offering that burns up

but one that returns to you.

An offering of simplicity,

of trust,

of pure burning presence.

I offer it to God;

She offers it back to me.

We meet in the simple act of nourishment,

the sacred found not in the high towers

of ornate cathedrals,

but in fields of grass and lilies,

in the honey-eater’s morning song

By Saskia Scott