I recover in the kitchen,
slowly rising.  I sift and taste,
and feel the acrid tang
of humble raising agents.

I knead and yield
stiff butter dough between
cracked and tired knuckles.
A palindrome massage
as I coax myself into
a shape more pliant and roundly soft.

With a twitchy thumb I press
a dozen tiny wells and fill with
cherry jam;
a thicker kinder echo
of my sweet reservoirs.

While a warming, tender oven
purrs and I, stirring constantly,
attend to a thick saffron syrup,
the air around me infuses:
chemical tension
to alchemical peace.

There is lemon, nutmeg,
bread, slowly rising
and nourishing warmth.

I recover in the kitchen,
slowly rising.