Sylvia Plath Talks About Baking Cookies Poem by gina prettybrowneyes

Today the rain falls outside the window with a broken pane
The cold rises from the cellar into the floorboards
Where her feet leap to the nearest rug.

She bundles in her favorite red wool sweater, black striped socks
Glancing out to the driveway to see that Ted has taken the car for the day,
She resolves to bake chocolate-chip cookies

She gathers her orange tins, white Tupperware cases, blue cartons
On the old oak table; sleeves rolled, hair pinned,
She mushes together the ingredients as her mother once did

With glad taste in her mouth from a snuck morsel of dough
She pops the cookies into the eye-glass-steaming hot oven
And sits content in her rocking chair to wait