Appurtenance
to a small appliance,
Instrument
of domestic industry.
Kitchen companion
of thirteen years,
Caressed by
thirteen thousand scars.
She is more anvil
than hammer,
More mule
than Muse.
She is a basin,
not a fountain,
But from her arms are borne
the cakes of joy,
the bread of life,
and the loaves of consolation.
By her scars we know–
we taste, we see–
a lover’s love,
a mother’s delight,
a home’s chief comfort.
Heralded as a heartbeat,
silent and servile,
She gives and never takes.
A cradle of confection,
partner to the paddle’s dance.
This is the ode
to the bowl from whom
our bread is begotten.
She is steady,
She is sure.
She is proven as the sunrise.
A housewife’s mixing bowl.
January 2, 2021
Flagstones 