A light snow glazes the ground.
Nothing stirs in the house save
for the smell of Grandma’s cinnamon buns
wafting from the kitchen up the stairs
into my room. I float down like a feather
helpless in the wind. I watch her hands at work
kneading a second batch. She shapes a log
long as a Dachshund, on a floured baking board,
then cuts the rolls in equal shares.
With a bristle-brush she swishes melted butter
on each one. Into the oven they go.
Yeast rises like the sun bursting through clouds.
As the rolls brown, happy smells squeeze
through the oven door, caress my hungry face.
I’m eager to taste the first one out.
After a drizzle of luscious sugar glaze, 
I hear the sound of love in grandma’s voice,
Here, try one, make sure they’re fit to eat.


© by Michael Escoubas.
Used with the author's permission.