Poem 42

to december:

the oven warms the kitchen mother's hands knead dough on the counter the scent of sugar and vanilla a snowman cookie cutter in my small hand

mother's hands knead dough on the counter her voice hums a carol i still remember a snowman cookie cutter in my small hand outside the window, winter tightens its grip

her voice hums a carol i still remember this is how traditions root themselves in us outside the window, winter tightens its grip but in this kitchen, warmth blooms eternal

this is how traditions root themselves in us the ritual of flour and butter and shared laughter but in this kitchen, warmth blooms eternal the simple magic of dough transforming in heat

the ritual of flour and butter and shared laughter december days grow short, nights stretch long the simple magic of dough transforming in heat we shape our memories like these cookies

december days grow short, nights stretch long but the oven's glow pushes back the dark we shape our memories like these cookies sweet and enduring through every season

but the oven's glow pushes back the dark each cookie a small sun we create together sweet and enduring through every season these recipes outlive the winters of our lives

each cookie a small sun we create together the kitchen becomes a fortress against the cold these recipes outlive the winters of our lives in the rhythm of baking, i find my mother's love

the kitchen becomes a fortress against the cold december's chill cannot touch what we've built here in the rhythm of baking, i find my mother's love the truest warmth lives in these handed-down gestures