The Orange Rolls (Poem 162)

Worn and polished to a shine,

Dusted with freckles and flour,

Knuckles knobby against 

The birdlike fineness of her bones,

Grandma's hands worked

The dough--crumbling,

Kneading, twisting, and finally,
Nestling each short rope

Against its neighbor 

Until the pan was filled. 

The recipe, she said, was 

Secret, passed along by a friend

Long-since dead--

A mystery certain to set

My girlish head to yearning--

For the time she remembered

As simpler,

For the romance of the songs

She hummed, 

For the swirling silks 

Worn by dancers 

Initiated into the  mysteries

Of the Foxtrot 

And the Rhumba...

Finally the timer rang out

Like the bell on my bike handles,

And we hurried, 

Pink cheeked, sniffing the air,

To admire the fruits of our labor,

As yet unglazed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six