I take down your cookie
jar from its high shelf
to touch—then wash over.
Glass thick and green
as your eyeglasses. I fish
a solitary penny from
your tidal pool, pocket it
against my leg. I rub that
cent to make a wish in its
copper hold; sort warmth
from the swim of silvery
change. That your recipe
might live one life longer.

A cold quarter speaks
in lieu. I wish it you,
on your kitchen range,
ferrying sweet-works to
your table, where I wait
behind ventriloquist glass,
words white with milk.
I fold into oilcloth design,
as a loon into aqua-marine,
or a swallow into azure.
A green-eyed child
into a tome of ghost
tablespoons and pinches.