Father’s hand closed upon the lemon.
Knuckles coated, dust from baking powder.
Mother mixing drizzle cake well made,
Life was often sweet if sometimes sour.
Stars glittered, comets raced.
Blazed between rolling pin and sieve.
We sneaked downstairs at midnight’s hour,
mother had so much to give.
Night dust drifted, smell of bleach.
Tin on shelf, far out of reach.