Wednesday, September 11, 2013

The Orange Rolls (Poem 162)

Worn and polished to a shine,
Dusted with freckles and flour,
Knuckles knobby against 
The birdlike fineness of her bones,
Grandma's hands worked
The dough--crumbling,
Kneading, twisting, and finally,
Nestling each short rope
Against its neighbor 
Until the pan was filled. 
The recipe, she said, was 
Secret, passed along by a friend
Long-since dead--
A mystery certain to set
My girlish head to yearning--
For the time she remembered
As simpler,
For the romance of the songs
She hummed, 
For the swirling silks 
Worn by dancers 
Initiated into the  mysteries
Of the Foxtrot 
And the Rhumba...
Finally the timer rang out
Like the bell on my bike handles,
And we hurried, 
Pink cheeked, sniffing the air,
To admire the fruits of our labor,
As yet unglazed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

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