Love this Poem

I heard this poem on NPR the other day. Just lovely.

French Toast
by Anya Krugovoy Silver

Pain perdu: lost bread. Thick slices sunk in milk,

fringed with crisp lace of browned egg and scattered sugar.

Like spongiest challah, dipped in foaming cream

and frothy egg, richness drenching every yeasted

crevice and bubble, that's how sodden with luck

I felt when we fell in love. Now, at forty,

I remember that "lost bread" means bread that's gone

stale, leftover heels and crusts, too dry for simple

jam and butter. Still, week-old bread makes the best

French toast, soaks up milk as greedily as I turn

toward you under goose down after ten years

of marriage, craving, still, that sweet white immersion.