Poetry

(a small ode to my wife Daleen)
 
Hers is a clean kitchen
with everything tidy in its place
while white dough, turns to bread
in the black oven
 
sweetly smelling and surely delightful
and in baking pans some more dough
is rising and in a little while
it will turn to baked rusks
 
and her darling hands
that cares tenderly
have played their part in life
with a gentle smile on her face
and the first sings of age
are just touching her hair
but from her glance,
love is spreading everywhere.