The wooden spoon replaced by the paint brush
The clean hands replaced by speckled residue of ideas
and construction
She was never certain what would be cooked up
or if it work would be palatable
This time it wasn't about taste
It was about moving in circles and
with the current
The recipe slipping off the counter and
the ingredients not yet discovered in the pantry
nor anywhere.
Moment by moment the stirrings arose
Tasted by a few but held upon the easel by one
