Mashed Potato Poem

One wave of golden-white, turned to twenty little wavelets, like the fractal in a nautilus of cream and softened butter, and little peaks of salt.

     With the whirl of the beaters and the flick and flack, forth and back, of the wrist and arm, a plain and gentle tuber drops and rises into a queenly crown, aswhirl beneath my hands.

In my kitchen
In the stairwell
Earthy colors
Laundry washed in light
Hand pies
Simmering the sauce
Light and shadow
Cheese shavings
Stars in his eyes