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

Ordinariness

In the stairwell

Earthy colors

Laundry washed in light

Hand pies

Simmering the sauce

Light and shadow

Cheese shavings

Stars in his eyes