Recipe Without Measures

by The Hearth Voice

Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.

My mother never measured flour. Her hands knew when the dough had listened long enough. A little more, she would say, meaning salt, patience, or the story she had paused to answer the telephone. I own every silver spoon with a number on its handle. Still, when I bake her bread, I wait for my hands to remember what no recipe wrote down.
63 words · 12 lines · Free Verse
mothercookinginheritanceimagerypersonificationsymbolismfree-verse

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