mud pies~

Four years from the memory of water

I watch

as you bake cookies

Your pensive industry concentrated, I

 stand silenced

by the gray distances you favor.


In our own ways

we are both tempted by sweetness.


I have already learned to adapt

to the rhythms of living in the abstract.


not being within the code

of your weather.


So when you are busy elsewhere

I look in the cupboard

to find

one cup of sugar

intending to make the earth



dirt    sugar    water

seeming the perfect alchemy

baking all afternoon

on an old tin

in the white heat sun oven

off the porch


The flower swollen and car exhausted air

seduces me

I gasp in the embrace


When it is time

my cookies still

taste like dirt.

But I am less interested

in this wounded conjunction

than the fine film

of sweat

that covers me.



Making Mud Pies