Both are creative. I found this poem while doing some reading.
New York Stories
Like my mom before me
I knead my bread
Debate my persona, time choices
the kneading calms my mind
and prepares the next words I need to hear
The fabric continues.
Like the scraps of recipes my mom collected, revised, and rewrote
I am a collector of words, experiences, revising with time
No depression era baby
my life is written on file cards
my mom’s was carried on by typing on a dignified yellow paper with an old corona typeset
Women of words
we knead our dough carefully
choosing our weapon of choice
we are the same
a New York Story with a foreign twist.