In the thick butterscotch icing she used to twirl her fingers,
Touching her fingers to her lips to let the sweet taste linger.
She wished for the simple time when cookies were all that mattered.
She’d easily wipe up her mistakes when sticky dough splattered.

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Emily Paige Wilson
Wondering why life couldn’t be a step by step recipe,
Every delicious batch made came with the tasty guarantee
That no matter how severely she messed up, she could take pride
In presenting her cookies with a gleam in her bright, wide eyes.
Instead of icing, her wrinkled fingers now twirl through late bills.
The messes she cleans come from her rambunctious kids and their spills.
Her aged eyes are dulled from ambitions that failed to materialize.
She’s gotten to the point where every action is criticized
By an ungrateful husband who believes affection is bought.
To hide her pain, she tries to bake cookies when she is distraught
But ends up spilling tears into the bowl full of white flour.
She presents her fresh cookies with a smile somewhat slicing,
Pretending she’s young and life is sweet like butterscotch icing.