Say hello to my version of goodbye
Maybe it will make you fly
Maybe it will be unbearable
Maybe it will be pulling-out-hairable
Just drink coffee with me
Add some cinnamon if that's what you want to see
Wear old sweaters
And write sappy love letters
Standing in the rain kisses
And playful disses
Cuddling on the moon
And maybe we could spoon
Just say hello to my version of goodbye

So many years,
These hands, now old,
Have worked at the table,
kneading and rolling dough,
Testing texture,
Adding raisins,
Walnuts,
Sugar,
Sprinkling cinnamon.

Warming the oven,
Waiting for the dough
To rise,
Sliding trays onto hot racks,
Marking time....

She sits on her walker's chair
Looks up into the camera
"Oh, don't take my picture!"
But how can we not?
Adding these images
To the memories,
To the moment.

The scent of baking bread,
Cinnamon,
Raisins,
Fills the room,
With 40 years' remembering...
Time stops,
Time reverses.

The ones who stopped in...
Dad,
Brother,
Sister,
Gram,
Hired Men,
Grandchildren,
Neighbors passing by...
Some now long gone...
After all, they were
Only stopping in...

"To grab a bite"
On their way to the barn,
On their way by the farm,
On their way to fields,
On their way to the phone,
On their way to town...,
But really to stop
For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts
Twisted into fresh, hot bread,
And a cool glass of milk.

Sweet and sticky
Soft and cinnamon
Yes yes
**** another cute ******
Wake up to a cinnamon roll.
Yes yes
Bitter and slick
Hard and sugary
Yes yes
**** another hot guy
Wake him up with your cinnamon roll.
Yes yes

I can taste the burned cinnamon that coats the air
with a bitter film,
a coarse tang.

I smell the smoke and believe it or not all smoke smells the same to me
this smoke from cinnamon bread smells like when i burned pineapple and sugar.
this smoke smells like the time I lit too many candles with the window down, door closed, smoke alarm off
Smells like burnt anything
Tastes like natural want.

Cold days and snowy nights
dissolve into the glow
when we come home from the sweater weather.
In from the cozy autumn day.
In from a day in which sunlight
dappled the tree's bark
like the zig-zagged icing
and french dough.
A day of mittens so only your thumbs protrude.
A day like kittens which tumble in
happiness and innocence.
Into the oak, with the window
in which tear drops
chase themselves away
down the pane and
the cool air is made hot
with cocoa frothy cream
and pumpkin.
We smoke on curled cinnamon sticks
which splinter like burnt logs
on an fire of embers.
The silhouettes of our shadows
catch on the horizon
as we watch the spectrum
scatter from the warm
cream to the dusty
pumpkin to cocoa.

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.