sprinklings of soft flour
scattered upon teal green kitchen tiles
well wishings and moving chairs
make soft background noises
I look up at the deep red of your apron
the business suit of the old fashioned woman
you pick me up and place me on the tiles
Usually cold, they're warm in the kitchen's heat
I smile as I draw a tree through the flour
you look down on me and laugh
such warmth and happiness in your smile
that split second of attention, all I needed,
to progress through the cinnamon smelling household
on a day perfect for lying.