Making
The pleasure of slicing celery,
paring the last apple into a pie,
rolling out the canvas of crust,
mincing butter into hard white bits.
The windows gone fogged
with steam from a boiling pot,
as through a glass darkly
I watch moonrise over snow,
a winter world shaped
beyond these borrowed walls,
another house I've brought my tools to,
knives and rolling pins, notebooks and pens.
—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell