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
A Year in Haiku 