Last night
I dreamed
of sweet and buttery
and cinnamonny cinnamon rolls,
fluffy fragrant bites of bliss
to fill each crevice in my week-worn self
--I know, I know:
my tummy and true heart
tangle terribly
confusing culinary comfort with
healthy happiness.
And so
this morning
a slave to the sweet reward
of sugary buttery cinnamon solace,
I sift and I measure
and mix and knead
and roll and slather
and roll and slice
and grease and place
and rise
and wait
and bake
and wait
and savor the smells
of flour and butter and sugar
but not
the cozy
and comforting
sweet and so spicy
the dreamed of
the thought of
the absently-mindedly
forgotten
forsaken
scent of the cinnamon.
©2017 Rebekah Hoeft
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