“Stroopwafel Blonde”

She pulled me up like
daffodils
in a cold April shower
that dripped for hours
and hours
after her reign was over.
Her cinnamon perfume
still twirls windmills
round my tongue.
She was the finest
Dutchwoman I never
touched.
But give me five minutes
alone in her delft kitchen,
reciting this old recipe.
She’ll sift herself out
and beg me to fold in
all her wettest ingredients.
Then beat myself into her
for a smooth stiff batter—
before dribbling down caramel
to finish off one tough cookie.
But if you are too tired
to do this all yourself,
you can always buy one
on the street—
in the town of Gouda.
She’s there and waiting—
My Stroopwafel Blonde.
The sweetest thing since
Napoleon
began growing sugar.

narrative poem written on 11-30-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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