Baking

Hands press down
passing downward
with a gentle strength
like sowing paper
into books
that smell a little like nature,
a little like man,
and a little reluctant to be written upon.

Dough rises
unperturbed by
the cacophony
and her quick movements
like a bird’s
efficiently purposeful,
anticipating,
and living brightly colored in the south this winter.

The clock chimes
wanting to be
a player in the
diorama that
unfolds in
the kitchen of our family
as we gather to
memorialize our love in the most ancient custom.

Sugar blessed,
made pecan proud,
honored as coffee,
cinnamon true,
and surely
vegetable venerated:
all that we are comes
to the table, is acknowledged, and is passed around.