cookie circle

cookie circle

 

I smell everything cookies rising in the oven.
Cinnamon, raisin, walnut, chocolate chip.

I made them and I didn’t.

Measure, dump, mix, pour, shape, heat,
cool at a prompting beep.

Not till, water, weed, witness,
pluck at perfection.

My company was the dishwasher’s hum,
boys’ matters, a song recorded, roof, walls,
rectangles of light on shag carpet.

I missed sweating in the sun, sore shoulders,
dirty fingernails, blistered hands, a cooling breeze.

I now enjoy a plateful with coffee (another story)
out here on the back porch,
grateful for wordless cooperation.

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