Sue Russell

he stoops over the oven
her mittened hand lifts out cinnamon-slathered rolls
releasing their yeasty aroma
flour dust opaques the tiny violets
on her ragged apron
one white hair
drifts to the grey Formica table

waiting nearby the Pyrex dish belies
the royalty of its contents
its clunky lid and faded red surface
seem more suited to margarine
the milky interior bears a hairline crack
sliding my finger along the fissure into silky butter
I think there is so much to love in a cracked vessel