Snow fall like petals from clouds,
Resides on a slippery slope,
Stands a small shack,
Where doughs get kneaded,
Fresh and white.

A woman like a thick armed basketball player,
Slaps the dough onto the table,
Rolls it into a ball, 
Breaks into a dance of flour, 
Pulling strings,
Squeezing them into five yarns.

And then, multiple strings ascend,
As bound together into a central stem,
Stretched into a parade of overhanging cables,
Channelling between the two hands.

Oh how many hands!
How many beatings this takes?
From a teacher, from a father, 
A mother, the whole place takes turns.

Kneading the silvery white deeply dark,
How terrible cooks they are!
How good untrained chefs are they!
Noodles shot from the hands,
Land into a syrupy bowl.

Every chef worth their salt,
Knows the marbled surfaces take a life of its own,
Soup seeps into the noodles,
Brimming with fresh life.