A Recipe For Writing Poetry

by Carolin Messier

Custards are made
fields of grazing cows
and free run chickens
orange-scented coffee
and vanilla bean,
the fruit of an orchid
that grew from the blood
of forbidden lovers.
The last batch
of ice cream
is churning
figs steeped in sherry
the Spanish sun
warms the stones
laid by Moors
in a time of tolerance
with hints of anise and bay.
As I roll the pin
across the fifth crust
of buttery dough
to fill fluted pans from France,
my fingers itch
to grasp instead
a pencil
to plant words, not seeds
upon a page
to capture and preserve
the thoughts and remembrances
that waft to the surface
with the steam of rosemary tea.
But the oven awaits the cakes
flourless, moist with chocolate and dates,
so I reach for a whisk instead.