Aproned Literacy

Blessed be the biscuit makers;
the humble-budgeted, quiet scientists
of the breakfast table,
their soft, winter wheat and cold
shortening,
the sour smell of buttermilk,
the heirloom tin ring
dipped in flour to cut, not twist
a lively round of dough
gently, quickly lifted
and placed in a very,
very hot oven.
The biscuit maker knows the dough
by instinct, knows when
to open the oven door.
Hallowed halls cannot prepare
the biscuit maker so much as
decades of study, clinical trials
at Sunday dinners, spoons full
of molasses, table knives
iced with butter,
children lingering indoors
for a second, a third biscuit,
plates wiped clean;
the biscuit maker’s theorem
demonstrated time and again.