Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
inside a rural cottage home,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.