In any kingdom, something grows
and moves in—the sticks of butter stacked
in waxed paper packs in our refrigerator.
My mother baked. A lot. When I think of her,
she is wearing an apron. The avocado
colored counters hold a parade
of rows of brown edged cookies on wire racks,
the darkened pans cooling on the stove.
A ceramic bowl is in the sink, filled
with measuring cups, spoons, and suds.
She will clean up later. Does she know
how much I liked walking in
through the wide screen door,
its solid slap behind me and smelling
butter, sugar, and vanilla?