The dough
does not behave.

It sticks.
It tears.
It rises
when it wants to,
not when
the recipe says.

You learn this
with your hands –

the press,
the fold,
the waiting
that no timer
understands
the way
a kitchen
full of flour-light
and silence
understands.

The machine
can write
a recipe.

It cannot
feel the moment
the dough
stops fighting
and begins.