It's the sails of spatulas I praise,
their sturdy masts
ready for any wind
and the Vollrath ice cream scoop,
that clicks with perfect gears
beside the three clanking whisks
in the French style:
elegant stirrers of sauces,
of olive oil, balsamic vinegar;
beaters of eggs, next to
their coy stepsister,
the coiled whisk. I praise

the sensible wooden spoons
with their burns, stains and cracks;
their comfortable fit in any hand,
and Grandmother's ladle:
Roger's triple plate, worn thin,
pitted by too many soups,
and the rolling pin still
smelling of butter and blueberries.

We need more in the world
that clanks, whirls and scoops.
We need the familiar,
the worn, the cracked.

We need lovely disorder;
predictable, exuberant clutter
overflowing into our hands.

From Shadowcatcher (Ekstasis Editions, 2005).
Used with the author's permission.