Annette, the Michelangelo experience sparked some creativity. I wrote a poem yesterday, but I need to noddle on it some more. Meanwhile, here’s the Rice Krispie poem I mentioned. Let me know what you think. Each poem appears with its recipe in my mind.

That summer my sisters craved
                        spun sugar.

The light and dark of it,
            their heads together —

one brunette and Walloon, feverish,
                        the other Midsummer fair and Swede.

The impromptu recipe
            triggered a detente of sorts.

Sisters frustrated
                        by the low slant

of the late afternoon sun,
            practically waterlogged

with swimming, sick of friends —
                        a growing awareness of

a channeling into lives
            they didn't want or couldn't change.

One would find the other
                        and pick a quarrel over

a library book or a record
            or a seat in a favorite chair —

that plush one by the window
                        in the quiet living room,

next to the lamp with an etched globe
            and crystal light pulls.

Yet they stirred marshmallows
                        into butter until completely melted,

a white confectionary meltingness
            of sugar and nice —

all the backchat in the rice,
                        snapping and crackling.

The gooey mess cooling only minutes,
            they served each other treats

in their T-square socks, leaning hard
                        against the counter and sink.

Laughing, they pulled the squares apart
            as they blew on their fingers.