Butter is mother
Kneading. Rolling. Folding.
No recipe in sight
Perfect biscuits every time
Butter is melting
Seeking shelter in crispy crags
Of steaming bread
Delivering bliss and involuntary sighs
Butter is molded
Uniform domes adoring dinner plates
Soldiers willing to sacrifice
For the diner’s delight
Butter is memory
Melding moments from then
Into this moment now
A sensory scrapbook of a bountiful life