A Year in Haiku

Dough From My Own Hands
Fresh Baked, Sliced and Buttered Tastes
of Generations

First My Mother’s Bread
Baked Each Friday, Fragrance Fills
The House After School

And My Father’s Rolls,
Cinnamon and Butter and
Dough, Fried and Frosted

And, Like a Story,
Grandma’s Cookies, Soft, Sweet and
Rationed, Sneak Cookies

So My Bread Tastes of
Generations, Leavened With
Love and Memory