Looking through fairy dust

The song of grandma and her oven hums

a harmony, percussed by spinning whisk

that dances ‘round the bowl in which it drums

ingredients together ‘til they’re mixed.

The kiln births golden domes in papered tins;

through powdered sugar air, their hearts a-flutter,

She whispers “Let us give these fairies wings…”

and swears that magic’s found in sweetened butter.

The winged cakes into our mouths are hasted,

no trace of crumb, nor fairy dust, nor icing,

She laughs and claims “the best she’s ever tasted,”

to stop at one’s absurd when so enticing!

The greatest treats of fleeting nourishment,

are memories, the sweetest once they’re spent.