"Cookie Jars Warm"

Cookie Jars Warm

By RF Garman

Where Bigwinds blow, there is no peace

but when, returning,

landing on the indefatiguable isle,

each moment spent calmly, peacefully,

hands are interlocked and heaven sent.

Though indeterminate value in terms tactile,

grasped and gripped

by minds used to tangible actions,

not words, these gifts,

cookie dough tastes,

offerings daily

ground from heart grist dedication’s mill,

are made magnificent, with

smooth sensitivities, beneath our trees.

A fine powder, take, from the constant turn

with which you bake, until ready and I return.

The heat of oven, the smell of cookies

soon soft, too warm to touch,

each, always eaten, without expiry.

Long and drawn, I will wait through storms,

a wind,

adventures changed,

the navigations set for

steering home

to landing shore among the trees.

The test, extract a price so dear in time,

painfully, powerfully, potently boil the excess

to reply

crystallize and clarify.

Angels do dance,

we know perseverance deepens with

experience.

And even as the Bigwinds blow and insecurities fight strength,

a weld, bond brought tight though

turmoil tempts and tries

seemingly tranquil seas, concealed

there exists an after journey.

Bigwinds, mooncold

resistance,

taste the temperance

of the faithful devotion, consistent

through good and bad and better than

service, paper or written word,

piping hot cookies baked brilliantly,

simply, with love,

wait, while arms, expectant hugs,

ward against the cold,

of seas and heart and somber thought.

Actions speak clearly, succinctly,

and even when, in my own failings, and

Bigwinds rattle rafters beam and buoys bob,

I do hear the quiet strength

beyond the mast and realize what has been,

reacting unconsciously, like a stomach growl

when I return to port, opening doors,

to smell confection completed,

cooling on the tray.

Fooling myself, at times when challenge tries,

offset by remembrance and imaginings,

film shot in memory of hands held out,

Bigwinds blow and all can see there is no sympathy,

yet belief in me, though turbulent seas, we shall be

like nice old trees,

living side by side, sharing roots

and water table sustenance,

whose leaves, individual, while unique, are canopies,

interspaced,

patchwork quilt contributions

of each to one another and self.

Bending to a Bigwind bluther,

all are blown,

but trees,

at times though not so gently,

rock and sway, steadfast

against the headwind,

move matter of factly

in a world preoccupied with not enough time

to appreciate sweet air, the lingering looks,

the homecoming cookies, piping hot.

Always, hand in hand, I will fortify myself

with replayed films of walks on beaches barefoot,

kitchen warmth, your hands in preparations,

the chocolate chips melted, in doughy combinations.

I have passed through many doors,

wondrous worlds leading me from you,

involuntary necessity, I have left our own

though you reveal

what’s right at home.

My heart lives solely to feel

that which is beneath the apparent.

Bigwinds, horizons come,

just beyond the bow,

a whisp eternal, like photo shots clicked, snapped

with your image trapped on silver foil, ward against

the rising swell and compel

my own determined, safety.

The memories, our human experience,

intimate agency to choose each other

across great distance,

despite the lure,

and siren songs,

we crinkle toes though far apart,

to share the roots

and place our selves

on special shelves

for emotions and love and cookie jars

that shall never empty,

for they are baked privately, secretly,

and shaded in safety.

The many vessels, yet unopened, keep gooey, chewey,

magical moments and learned lessons,

shared experience, the eating of which,

digestion of which,

are captured and pictured on personal films.

White dresses stand out against the blue water

and that look in my eye,

projection against eyelids,

box set boosters provide

lighthouse guidance

no matter how dark or strong the blow.

Spirit worlds,

those hands and spots still warm from cookie jars,

lids locked for you to open at leisure, comfort and ease,

shaded from harm, protected robust roots

and trunks tressed by overhang, interconnected

as trees stay tall, yet bend.

Bigwinds ply their trade,

yet always there will play,

back of the eyelid movie moments

filmed and developed

in intimate environments

where cookies are baked and trees are fed

and hands are held,

lovingly,

longer than those winds could blow.