Her Red Wing crockery mixing bowl
was all I wanted
of my mother’s earthly  possessions,
that magic place
where pies and cakes and cookies
enough to sate six boys,
were conjured with a mixing
of sugar and cinnamon,
a swirling of milk and eggs,
cup fulls and sprinkles and spoons full
of flour and soda and salt.
 

Now that I do my own baking,
I treasure my mother’s mixing bowl
as a peaceful, sacred place,
a small clearing in a dark forest;
where I meet her again,
my fingers touch hers
as she guides my hands
through stirring and kneading.
When a recipe calls for water,
I add tears.


From Scales Out of Balance (North Star Press, 1990).
Used here with permission.