[Trevor Conway]

The act of mixing
at some point becomes one of turning
a galactic swirl of wet dough.
She eyes the flour and, needing more,
scatters pinches in precise places,
presses her fists into dry curves –
a brief record of each effort,
turned and folded to extinction.

She shoves the tray into the oven
and settles on a chair
to sip tea and observe its increase.

She has no knowledge
to explain this transformation,
believes herself dumb to its science,
and yet, she thinks of how flour is ground
by cog and wind, has some grasp
of fiery engines and rolling wheels
that carry flour to spacious shelves.

Isn’t that a class of science too?

The scent throughout her home
has always struck her as a kind of cousin
to the smell of plants relieved by rain.
And when the bread cools, she cuts through crust
and spreads a wave of butter
that soon melts to an oily swamp.

Sitting with her second cup,
she thinks of how, in a sense,
the science of ship-builders brought her tea,
the physics of wood,
the absent friction afforded by sea.

She closes her eyes and sits back.
All that, she notes, is academic
when you take a moment
to savour the taste.