Stacked still, inside one another,
in vintage drawer, they rest
after decades of pressing
out perfect biscuits, day-after-day
dusted white, with all-purpose flour,
then scrubbed clean, dried before rust
could set in, only to wake to same
routine just like she did, donning her
red-white-checked apron, considering
the steady measure of her day, of children,
of granddaughter. She pressed
with hands that wore thin, making
lives rise high, happy, purpose-full
with near exact measurement
of her time-proven recipe.