In the kitchen I look over this clear glass bowl
filled with ordinary white flour.
I push play on my vintage iPod and then
go back two decades, when I was an unknowing,
bendable thing.

I shape my hands into spoons,
and as if entering a warm bath, they gently descend.
Open palms press down to the bottom;
they bloom into starfish.

Sand as smooth as the ocean;
softer than delicate coffee grounds.
My knuckles are tucked in, already dreaming.
Then, like being carried to the shore, my hands resurface,
accompanied by little waterfalls, outlining a traveling timeline on my skin.

Cascading Feathers,
unclutter my tomorrow-thoughts.
Pause the high-definition cataclysms.
Slow down the spiraling world;
its wire tentacles strung through my
impressionable existence.

All I want is to stay
under the influence
of a baker’s indiscretion,
because somehow, it quiets
this tantrum of twenty six steps,
and the thousands lost in between.
And I am forgiven, and I am rewarded
with a child’s wisest meditation;
a kinder provocation; permission
to laugh at my own inhibition.

Once again, I am surprised by the warmth of a smile;
these lungs within, received by an old friend named, Relief.
I forget about everything the world expects from me.
Well-rested without falling asleep. Peaceful breath; weightless mind.

Here’s to not following the recipe.