Monday, August 1, 2011


sitting on the kitchen floor
watching scones rise in the oven
I am pleased with the smell of cooked flour
and the sight of a well-wrought crust

soon they're out and shrinking back
like a shy child
that whimpers between its mothers' legs

I must've overworked them
anathema to my own mother -
she of nimble fingers
unlike my father;
given to making a mess of everything

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