Salt

I have a simple longing, one which
falls well within the realm of women:
a shelf of blue glass,
an open kitchen window,
sunlight, and a fruit tree
beyond,
cherry or apple,
something that will ruin the lawn
with its bounty in the fall.

And all the salt in the house
contained
in one wide mouthed canning jar on the counter
whiter than bleached bones
to be carefully measured:
a scant ½ teaspoon
for a golden lump of dough.

You remember how it feels,
the breeze on your arms
as you work the rolling
pin across the surface,
each fingerprint
disappearing under the
smooth wood,
reemerging reborn,
pure as fresh butter
and almost as yellow.