I like to rise before the sun on early winter mornings–

slipping out of bed and into robe and slippers, down the stairs then adding the apron–

to make a quick bread, to warm the old house

I add soda and spices to flour, mix honey from the backyard hives into butter, add eggs from the neighbor chickens

zest and orange, grate ginger, nibble on crystallized ginger,

and remember your taste on my tongue

Flavor is always reminding me of someone I love(d)

the smell of cinnamon, the tang of cloves

am I a servant to memory or to desire?

I am always  waiting for something– the bread to finish baking, the sun to lengthen the days again

Equilibrium, however brief–

the house is warm, the bread cooled just enough;

I remove the apron, then, smear butter and last summers’ peaches on a slice

and wait