She uses a rolling pin
to flatten the dough.
It has knobby wooden handles
and a heavy steamroller body
and every weekend she wakes up
and pulls it from the drawer
to start making cookies.
You could hear the clatter and din
of pans and utensils being moved about
the cloud of flour and sugar
that floats in the kitchen light
you could almost sense the taut pull
of her swollen knuckles and wrists
as she rows over the dough
makes it go flatter and smoother until
it resembles a fondant.
She pulls out a jar of metal shapes:
hearts, flowers, trees, circles, and men.
It's been at least 2 years since anyone
has stopped by for a bite, since her
daughters moved out of the state.
But she'll never stop baking
She'll always be ready just in case
someone decides to visit,
like the young man from the grocery store who looked
like a young man she might have known
at least 40 years ago, when men
would pause and gesture in her direction.
Yes, that man from the grocery store
must be on his way.
A way to a man's heart is through his tummy...so the cookies could be a winner....lol...although all jest aside there appears to be a whimsical sense of sadness in your poem and a hankering for companionship. On reflection how easy to turn heads when one is youthful. However aging need not be a lonley experience and we certainly don't need to settle for less than the best.10+
Rolling pin flattens with amazing view. This poem is very brilliantly penned and wise sharing is done really...10
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hey, Jette! I’m trying to remember if I read this before and can’t. But I just read it now and like it; this is a fine poem. Your description of the process is excellent, and I dig the understated poignancy of it. Lying awake before rising this morning I thought of a cummings poem and thought of you. If you don’t know it already, check out the one that begins “my sweet old etcetera...” The best to you! -Glen