Into the oversized silver bowl
nearly-translucent half-moons falling,
thin pieces stacking themselves haphazard.
At the first few a faint ringing
vibrates the stainless steel, as a voice
rings the guitar when it's just the right tone
Next to the bowl, discarded bits of skin
a colored-and-pale curve of debris, shaven
deftly from flesh bound for glory, like the pile
of wood and and bark by a carpenter's bench.
Scents deepening with the cutting and stirring,
first the faint, lively smell of cool fruit,
then the quiet sweet of grains of sugar
and the brown strength of ground cinnamon
and finally the heady anointing droplets
of pure vanilla, dark as midnight.
Past the white-on-white dance uniting
dry dust of wheat and salt from the sea,
the slick of lard and cold of water;
and the draping and crimping of crust
over the edge of slant sides of glass;
and past the moment the filling,
faintly colored and gathering juices,
slips and drips from bowl into pan.
Past the covering, the pricking design,
and step away for sixty minutes, until
at last the door swings down and open.
Pale brown crust, puffed and settled
around and over its treasure, breathing nectar,
the overflow-puddle of juice blackening
in the floor of the oven, dark souvenir –
and you, reeling in the rolling heatwave
heavy like summer, bee-glad, swelling with sun,
suddenly smitten with heavenly grain
and heaps of glorified fruit.