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A surge of pride swells in my heart
And words are left unsaid
To half describe the joy I feel
When baking homemade bread.
I knead my fingers through the dough
Until it's soft and light
And knead some more until it becomes
A luscious mound of white.
Then into loaves I shape the dough
And let it rise once more
Before it's baked a golden brown
And soon the task is o'er.
And while the crust is turning brown
Sweet fragrance fills the air
And long-forgotten childhood days
Are ours once more to share.
Perhaps I'm too old-fashioned in
This strictly modern time,
But baking fragrant loaves of bread
To me is joy sublime.

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