Baking — of the mix that will not keep, begin;
The bowl held all, and nothing finished in.
Sing, Muse, the girl who would not serve it raw.
Nell weighed the flour; the butter would not thaw;
She cut, she pressed; the pale gave in at last
And took the sugar. Then the egg was cast
Clean in the bowl. The dough clung to the spoon,
Then to the board, then to her palm too soon.
As when a smith, the iron not yet white,
Lets fall the hammer, and the bar still slight
Of colour dulls the blow, and will not take
The shape until the second heat awake —
So Nell worked in the bowl until the mass
Was one round thing, and set it on the brass.
Kit stood beside the oven. Then he said,
"Is it a cookie yet?" She shook her head.
"Not yet." She gave the fire what she had made.
The iron mouth took in the mound and stayed.
Heat filled the room. A ticking filled the pause.
He asked again. She opened. What the jaws
Had made was flat, a coin the fire had spent
Too fast. "Too soon," she said. "That was not meant."
She mixed the bowl a second time. She laid
A smaller round inside. "Do not," she said,
"Ask yet." The door stayed shut. The fire worked on.
When she drew out the tin, the wreck was gone.
The gold stood up, and held, a cookie, done.
"Take it." He took it, broke it, gave her one.
Baking — of the mix that will not keep — is spent
By giving fire its hour. What is meant
Unbaked is promise only, in the bowl.
They burned the first. They waited for the whole.
The second came. She did not store the gold.
She gave it. He gave half. The cookie, old
Enough to bite, was young in what it paid.
Baking — no easy task — two fires had made.