Cleaning Up After
Thanksgiving’s Feast Memories
Floating in the Air
Brushing Crumbs Off the
Counter Into My Cupped Hand
Just Like My Mom Did
My Hand a Shadow
Of Hers, Lit By Her Joy in
Feeding Her Loved Ones
Radiating Across
The Years, Undimmed, to Warm Me
Despite Time’s Cool Gaze
Category: Home
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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 -
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