I must have inherited
My baking prowess by osmosis.
For I cannot remember my mother
Introducing me to the chemistry
Of yeasts and flours,
Of sugar, brown and white,
And vanilla, real or imitation.
There exists not one Betty Crocker cookbook
Among my cooking soul sisters.
We share our neighborly talents
With wine and Budweiser,
Succulent pork roasts
And occasionally at three am,
Hash browns and eggs.
Together we are main course girls.
For garlic, cumin and sage
Seem better suited
To our weighty talk.
Desserts have been relegated
To Nutella with bread
And Janet's chocolate chunk cookies.
Still holidays inspire me
To rise early and bake.
Nutmeg and cinammon for pumpkin and apple pastry,
Powdered sugar and molasses,
Till the air smells more like
My mother's kitchen
Than my own.
So, my memories of the mysterious
Art of sweet things
Are like a kaliedescope,
Consisting of floury hands,
My grandmother's kolach,
And the fact that I will never top
My mother's lemon meringue pie.

At the present moment she is working on a poetry collection entitled "The Glassphalt Requiem" and collaborating with another writer on an original play.