Focaccia

Olive oil drips.

Soft heart, crisp edge.

A dimpled Italian dance—

Rosemary sings, time rests.

Bread that gathers.

Flour, rich and warm. Water, gentle flow. Salt, a subtle bite. Yeast, slow life. Olive oil, liquid gold.

Wheat hums here. Gluten shapes the soul. Oil traces linger.

Tear warm, with oil. Herbs burst alive. Wrap in cloth, breathe—Revive with heat, if needed.

Born in Liguria’s hills.

Kneaded by tradition.

A recipe of earth—

Brought to our fire.

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