alchemy

All weight on one leg,
a tired stance,
she stood in the kitchen,
leaned against the counter.

Hands in white flour
up the elbows,
flecks in her long dark hair
and across her chin, forgotten.
Her steel tools laid out like a surgeon.

Her mouth is hard,
her brows are furrowed,
working quickly, deftly,
in the autumn late afternoon
as the dough formed beneath her gaze.

As her shoulders rolled
and fingers, drawing in, pushing out,
she took the collection of plain words
(eggs, milk, yeast, water) 
and cast them into one
(bread).

Then the stove opened its mouth;
became a flaming gateway to hell,
and here she strains and sweats,
like the blacksmith who toils and worries
until his craft stands true in battle.

And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives 
and vinegar and lime.
She poured out and cooked off the
basil and butter 
and white wine and thyme
until it resembled a loaf of gold.

Where her feet touched the floor,
the flour scattered and danced about,
forged a path for her next step;
making way for the next secret quest
in hallowed transmutation.

And she rose in height and majesty
until Merlin himself, in awe of her cunning
would beg for a taste
only a small bowl
of the simple milk and honey that came from her high table.

And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives 
and vinegar and lime.
Like a goddess, she composed
basil and butter 
and white wine and thyme....



..."What's cooking?" he whispered into her ear,
and the spoon in her hand clattered to the floor in shock
as her raw daydream was cast off
like a cloak from a dark queen's shoulders.

"Dinner," she whispered, with a swift kiss
to the husband returned from work.