She who always smells of baking

she who always smells of baking is my next door neighbor,
Maria from Hungary, the quintessential baker
adorned in her flowered apron, floured hands,
a stack of measuring cups, a bowl of pea-sized frozen butter morsels
arranged on the counter in pursuit and capture of the perfect pie crust.
she gathers strawberries and rhubard, blueberries, pecans for fillings,
or decides on a cake would suit her dinner guests better,
or perhaps a coffee cake for Sunday morning for reading
the paper over a coffee as the sun moves slowly across her table
until it drops off just as she finished the NYT Review of Books.
Sometimes she invites me over to pick up an extra piece,
or I find a slice in a plastic box on my front porch.
I struggle to share it.
I love she who smells of baking, her floured hands,
her apron and collection of baking items that clatter in
her top drawer, or fill her cabinets.
I do not want to understand or duplicate her ways with
flour and sugar,
they look so much better on her.