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.