anaganagaa o’ kavi...

once upon a time, there was a poet. 

what she felt, she wrote down in words—on tables, on walls, in notebooks, in notes apps, on her arms, on her wrists. everywhere, every thing that could hold her musings, she made into a medium.

what she wanted to say to others, she imbued into the things she made. warm baked goods and fresh home-cooked meals.

and one day, as she looked down at a mess of flour, powdered sugar, pieces of parchment paper, drops of spilled vanilla bean essence, and sticky remnants of batter, she thought about what it might be like to add one more medium to her list.

she thought about what it might be like to fill those cakes she made with love and warmth, with her musings. to top them with the words she wrote, to whisk them into the shape of verses she spoke out loud. to flourish and relish and garnish with not just the unspoken, but the unwritten.

she wondered what it might be like to be a poet and a baker, both at once.