May 13, 2007


The pleasure of slicing celery,
paring the last apple into a pie,
rolling out the canvas of crust,
mincing butter into hard white bits.

The windows gone fogged
with steam from a boiling pot,
as through a glass darkly
I watch moonrise over snow,

a winter world shaped
beyond these borrowed walls,
another house I've brought my tools to,
knives and rolling pins, notebooks and pens.

—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell

Posted by dwaber at May 13, 2007 01:31 PM