I can feel the dough beneath my fingers
press into the crevices of my hand.
I knead and pound, the way my mother did
and my grandmother before her,
forcefully ravaging the mixture of
flour, sugar, and yeast
to produce the sweet bread.
The recipe is known well to me,
a tradition I can remember, manifest
Our history, though slightly distant here
is sensed in the aroma of Hallah,
and all the pounding.
All that is left,
all that one can do now,
is wait for the yeast to rise.