Thursday, April 30, 2015

moon over pancake trees

I stick my head under the stream of shower water
and I am surrounded by the hushed roar of
nothing but the sound of infinite silence
contained in waterfalls,
and, for a quiet minute,
I am no longer in the shower,
or the city, or anywhere.


Cooking and baking are two separate arts.
Cooking is something learned,
and it is full of accidents
that sabotage each of my careful,
tentative attempts.
My algebraic recipes fall flat and stale
without fail.

But baking is something innate,
an action rising out of the heart
and gut, and deep instinct,
which I could do with my eyes closed,
and half-asleep,
(which I think I've done before, in fact).
Baking is painting a blue sky;
even a misplaced stroke is blended
into a shade of the many-hued
cerulean atmosphere.

Cooking is learned: like manners,
slang, or throwing punches.
Baking is native: like smiling, imitation,
and holding your loved ones.
I cannot cook like I can bake.
But the world hungers for grilled salmon
and quinoa,
they do not want Baked Alaska and
Lemon Meringue Pie instead.

The trains rattle outside the windows,
in long intervals, since the stars are out,
and apartment windows mirror the constellations,
while overhead the moon hangs in the murky sky.
This moon is gradually developing,
fattening her belly until she is
stuffed full of all the silver starlight
the night sky holds.

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