The Secrets of Baking Soda

I'm in love with the poems of Todd Davis. I checked his newest volume out of the library--The Least of These--and have been reading all the poems while laughing and crying at the same time. I'm probably going to inundate you with too many of them in the next few months, but for today, just one, to show you what I love:

The Secrets of Baking Soda

The older we get the more we've learned to accept
that the body runs, then walks, eats, then sleeps, only
to wake again--sometimes to passion, sometimes

to the vague tug of this day's chores: laundry, dishes,
a yard to mow, bushes to trim, a room to paint.
After twenty years of marriage, I know the smell

of your body after you've bathed, the way the pores
of your skin open like certain flowers in the day's
first light. But this is like saying I know water seeks

the lowest point or the vireo gladly accepts the burden
of its song's notes. Perhaps it's what I haven't learned
that I love the most: you and your mother talking for hours

about how to hang curtains; how to remove the stains
our children bring on their knees; the secrets of baking soda
and vinegar, flour and the slightest hint of cinnamon.

I'm in love with the idea of a man married that long who still pays that much attention to the little things she does. . . and says so.

Aren't you? Couldn't you just positively swoon?