Kitchen counters dusted in white flour
Witness countless afternoons like this.
Fingers dipped in oil pass the hour
Forming dough as daughters reminisce.
I’ve witnessed countless afternoons like this,
Kitchen windows hot with with noonday sun.
Dry skillet, water droplets hiss,
Hinting that our work has just begun.
Kitchen windows, hot with noonday sun
Reflect rows of spices rarely used.
Hinting that our work is never done,
Herbs flavor best after they’ve been bruised.
Amid the rows of spices rarely used,
Unwritten verses loose their ageless power.
Herbs flavor best after they’ve been bruised
On kitchen counters dusted in white flour.