In your heavy green mixing bowl, combine salt of one ocean
and honey of a thousand hives. Add a century
of patience and a roomful of memory—yourself at fifteen.

Fold in cinnamon, clove, three lullabies,
ten prayers. Rest
for twelve beats of your heart.

Pour into muffin tins generously greased with intuition.
Bake till a toothpick pricked into each center
comes out without weeping.

Let cool on wire rack till your face appears calm
and you trust your voice to stay steady.
Call to your daughter to come try what you’ve made.

When she doesn’t answer, think again of when
she was seven—how you had to guess
her appendix was inflamed. How she denied she felt pain.

Look for her favorite plate—blue rosebuds, gold trim.
Bless the small anchor of that rough little chip in its rim.
Fill the plate. Carry it to her closed bedroom door.

Knock gently. When she doesn’t answer, set the plate down
on the floor. Send a dove to tell her it’s there.
Don’t assume she will eat.