Soft little whispers, of work to be done. Wherever it flares up, that’s where I’ve gone.
In the middle of a baking pie, you find sweet, steady bubbling. Stepping out, to the exterior, heat has firmed things. In parts, if it’s left untended, your eyes worry over dry brown crust. Spots char, too.
Journey to the rim, if you must.
The sweet place, though, you ought to know.
