The Art of Baking

I bake my friends in small batches now,

savor them along side coffee milky with cream,

pull them from the oven, smelling like the past:

cinnamon toast, beach fires, candy corn.

Little bites inoculate me from oldness,

chase away musty pages of regret, rewrite

whole years spent not near them, shed light

on hard-baked mostly forgotten wisdom.

Long gone are the hundreds I used to bake

Dozens and dozens of cookies,

all gone, unremembered, no crumbs linger,

no lasting flavor to sweeten my tongue.

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2 Responses to The Art of Baking

  1. Peg says:

    You are a wonderful poet, enjoyed this one, timely

  2. Barbara Toboni says:

    Interesting comaprison, friends like cookies. Savoring the few batches of special ones. I like your poems girl.

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