Pomegranate tree photo by Mary Saracino
I
I watch you in the kitchen
kneading dough on this Friday morning.
Your arms are strong, muscles stretch and pull,
pushing the dough,
rolling it, pushing it again
with your palms in smooth,
rhythmic motions:
fold, press, turn
fold, press, turn
massaging the off-white mass
into an oblong mound of potential bread.
II
I am proud of your strength,
the command and control you exert
in measured steadiness.
You are certain of your power.
Now, the kneading done,
you place the dough in a bowl,
covering it with a dish towel,
and patiently wait for it to rise.
Then you rest, content in the knowledge
that the dough will know when it is ready,
letting the minutes drift on,
not even looking at the clock.
It is not necessary.
Intuitively you sense when it is time.
III
Perhaps it is my youth,
but I lack your patience.
Can I learn the secret of your calmness?
Can I take a simple kitchen lesson
and apply it to my life?
I am kneading my Self,
Straining and stretching,
pushing, pressing,
trying to shape, to form my life
to smooth out the air pockets
and strengthen the fiber, the texture of my dreams.
I am clumsy, lacking your fluid motion.
My inexperienced hands are not as strong
or as steady as yours.
And I am forever in a hurry,
wanting my dough to rise
without allowing it its full measure of time.
Impatiently, I peek beneath the dish towel,
interrupting the slow and steading rising process.
I lack the wisdom to know,
to feel the fullness of my potential,
to let my power rise and expand.
IV
Can you teach me?
Is this strength an heirloom
passed from mother to daughter,
from you to me?
Did your mother mystically transmit
this power to you
one spring morning when you were young?
Have I, too, finally come to my inheritance?
I need to know.
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem about my mother, a long time ago when I was a young woman.
Meet Mago Contributor, Mary Saracino – Return to Mago E*Magazine