The Mixing Bowl

Push of a lever, motor begins to wheeze.

The soothing hum of a hive of bees,

Flutter of pinwheels in a swift breeze.

Sound tugs on nostalgic threads with ease.

Unraveling distant memories, 

Mind’s eye documentaries.

Floral kitchen wallpaper and books of recipes.

Decades apart yet collective similarities.

Yellows and whites of richness supreme,

Beat to a circular collaboration of cream.

Pressed between paddle and bowl, it may seem

Time and process can be quite extreme.

Different ingredients, united team.

Creating a new color scheme. 

A bowl of light airy moonbeam.

Consistent consistency is the theme.

Cracked, shattered, and broken; behold 

Devastating destruction births liquid gold.

Moonbeams morph into sunshine manifold.

The muted becomes bright, weak becomes bold.

Airborne scents take hold.

Salivary glands cannot be controlled. 

Tempted to taste no matter how old. 

But I must fold…

The dry ingredients into the wet dough.

Contrast collides, yet it’s as though

They were made for each other, it seems so.

With a stirring hand that’s gentle and slow.

Make patience a friend not foe,

Or a powder will blow.

A fireworks show.

Counters covered with fresh snow. 

Silky smooth ribbons cascade from the bowl.

Transferred to the pan like music to the soul.

Poured with the elegance of a jazz player’s stroll.

Evenly spread acoustics is the goal.

Into the black hole,

With the heat of hot coal.

New life, parts become a whole.

Emerging with a new role.

A fragrant lure enticing all with a nose.

Drawing near with the sound of tiptoes.

Awakening curiosity for those that doze.

At the counter, the formation of rows.

A break from work for those 

With sawdust-covered clothes.

Different motor and ingredients he chose. 

Similar art and science, I suppose.

Buzz of a saw, purr of a drill.

Low steady whir, high staccato shrill.

A tree gives life in many ways until,

It provides yet another life through skill.

Generations will

Enjoy its fruits that fill

A house until

We’re home for real.

Smell of cedar and pine.

Sweet sweat of salty brine,

With earthy notes of vanilla, combine.

Two uniquely different lives intertwine. 

Carefully blended, they align.

Rough hands of his, sticky hands of mine.

Phases, stages, and steps define

This creative process of the Divine.

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