Cookie Dough

I don’t plan to eat flour or pretend it is, what it is not
A cookie, cake or croissant
I won’t cry for a particle, an eighth of a spoon,
A dash of salt spilt like a lithe snowflake.

These things sit apart, unmixed, unbaked.
The chemical process not yet begun.
To do so, would be a sham mock play,
Solely acclaimed for visions and dreams.
The, what could have been, cut like the edgings sniped seams.

Does the baker stand before his stores and dream of pastries;
Smooth shiny silk frosting, multicolored hues,
Before even an egg has been gored.
That was more than this. At this moment
That egg was a perfect chick.

Yet, who mourns the loss of that flawless yellowed being.
We cast it in -just another ingredient in the bowl-
The egg was already a formed being,
Waiting to be self-or drowned in the soupy bin.

Yet, we stand above,
At the larder of life and judge, what is, as less than.
We lament the loss.
We ache and berate ourselves-over what.
If we could set aside the moral posturing,
And the political, emotional ranting,
And see each distinct- discrete part -Yet, not the whole,
We find we do not have even the base,
For that delicious cookie dough.