Biscuits

Flour shifts shape as it's sifted,
filters past fine screen mesh,
fills the air with white
as it falls to the bowl's round bottom.

Grandmother's hands
scatter salt over the snowy surface
and flutter away to the cupboards
for Clabber Girl --
just a puff (like a promise) --

then gather shaky strength,
form a fist,
grip wire whisk
to cut in the butter.

I'm afraid.

But she smiles
while pouring the milk,
"Like making mud pies!"
And her eyes --
as her hands sink into the dough --
slowly close.