What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us,
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?

Testing the temperature by tossing
Dabs of cream and cornmeal into the vat
Looking for tan or brown or black
“It’s time,” said Bill
“Just right,” Bob nodded