The Cookie Jar..

She keeps it in a jar of shadow,
lidded low and warm and out of sight,
and I have learned to beg before the dark
for one small crumb of her delight.

She says it's only baking. Only butter,
only sugar, only spice.
She says the oven's humming's nothing more
than something warm and something nice.

But I have watched her knead it, watched her fold
the sweetness in with patient hands,
and every fold she folded folded me
to something only she commands.

She dusts it down with flour like first snow
and slides it in and shuts the door,
and I would wait a lifetime on my knees
to smell the rising through the floor.

Then out it comes, oh so soft and swollen, gold
and brown at every tender edge,
still sighing steam, still trembling from the heat,
still hanging on the oven's ledge.

She sets it where she wants me. Where I'll look.
And does not let me touch.
She takes her time. She lets me starve a while,
says patience makes it worth so much.

At last the going in. The breaking through
of crust to crumb, the give, the swell,
the dark sweet middle where the sugar pooled
and where she keeps the things she'll never tell.

And I am greedy then, and she is glad,
and honey runs my chin.
I take the whole of her upon my tongue
and let the melting start again.

She laughs and calls me shameless.
I don't mind.
There is no shame in knowing what is good.
And nothing sweeter ever graced a plate,
nor ever will, nor ever could.

So let the neighbour's get their fill of bread.
I'll stay here at her knee,
and beg her, every evening of my life,
for one more bite of her
and her whole delicious cookie.