A Poem for You

It is late Sunday evening and has been snowing now for a few hours, sound is muffled by the enrobe-ment. I’ve put up a few Christmas lights and turned off the rest. I love this kind of darkness. Here’s that poem I wrote for you….

The Christmas Danish

Start with the dough, a croissant style dough

with the elongated ahhh and silent n and t.

The butter has been saved, frozen

last summer when the fat curds tumbled

out sweet and pale from July grasses

the soft-eyed Jersey crunched, on one

of her very best days.

And the flour, some whole grain pastry grown by

a farmer whose wife still uses the bread drawer

in their nineteenth century kitchen, and who

often mills his own just to let it run through his fingers,

the waft of Columbia River minerals rising, the taste

of an ancient craft licked off palm, eager to provide

the crisp, buttery firmament.

Almonds, wicked jewels of tongue, grown far away

from here, in a stillness just over the hills from

where Abraham came to his senses, prayerful

for reconciliation between intuition and grace.

Pounded, sugared, they become the perfume

that draws us close to the ovens heat.

And, long before those apricots were ever tenderly laid

in baskets, mashed and cooked to jam, to then be spread

thick over almonds and the rest, there was one day

in April when, standing on a tall ladder surrounded by

the heady sweetness and bees, pruning the branches

to let all the sunlight in, I gathered handfuls of fragrance

into a jar, so that today, in the kitchen my heart is open.


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