Not by the dark of the moon,
not in some grim retreat, but here …
by light of dawn, or noon-time glare,
or in the softer tones of dusk,
in the kitchen about which the whole
house curls, like a cat, for warmth—
this is where she works her daily magic.
Recipes for texts and a stove that has
become familiar to her touch and that
responds to her spells … these are
needful things but there’s so much more.
Fingertips that know a pinch by touch.
Hands that are never too hot, too cold.
Eyes that can tell a skin from a glaze from a shine.
A nose more finely tuned than a Steinway.
Ears that hear the first bubble and measure
the water drop’s dance across the griddle.
And even these are overshadowed by her
uncanny sense of taste … her tongue knows,
knows! Day after day, her power grows.
We all know her meals have made us …
her magic carries us everywhere we go.
The alchemists of old? They aimed too low.
Baltimore, Maryland 2009.
Published on Scribd.com July 1, 2010.