ODE TO FRUIT CAKE BAKER

Late in July Edie picks yard pears,

slices and dries them like shriveled moons on wire racks. By August something signals her to begin saving

the rinds of oranges.

On September first she shops for pecans,

black mission figs, medjool dates from the Holy Land,

a bottle of strong Filipino rum, cherries.

Across the street children assemble

for their first day of school.

She assembles the measuring spoons,

her big blue crockery bowl comes down, she pauses

to consider how old the can of Baking Soda must now be.

The pans are wiped clean and lined

with waxed paper.

Black walnut ground-falls are gathered and cracked. Flour should be fresh ground. A pinch

of salt brings out the orchid scent of vanilla bean, marries it to the sugar.

She decides not to blanch the almonds,

a little bitter is good.

He. . . husband, comes home from work

as the cakes emerge from the oven,

helps her pour the dark liquor over,

wraps each one in loosely woven cotton rag.

She posts one to a rural route in Oregon,

another to a P.O. box in Northern California.

The best one goes to the poet.

Listen, to hear the dark

eyes making notes on her cello.

How can the mailman know, on the day before Christmas,

what is so heavy? He drops a white

package on the snowy porch. The poet

will find it in a day, or a week, half buried

half frozen. In her hand she will feel the weight

of being the daughter Edie never had.