I prefer the kitchen today.
It's steaming pots and rattling lids
and a chaos of ingredients.
Here I find comfort.
And you, too . . .
I want a language for this
that speaks in senses and emotion.
A spill of salt beside a dusting of flour
leads to pale rising dough.
This should be enough to say it all
yet most people cannot read it.
Or maybe they just don't.
I always hope . . .
Perhaps a more clever hand
would decipher it for you
or write it more clearly
For now, contentment and peace
rest in fragrant loaves, awaiting consumption.
This love will have to wait for perfection
Until then
I speak incompletely in words
and cultivate a vocabulary
of ingredients and patience
waiting. for you
to find the translation.