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Every Sunday afternoon we’d go to my grandparent’s home,
those were the trips I’ll never forget with my siblings and I-
My grandpa would greet us with that pleasant smile shown,
and I’d always smell the sweetness of my grandma’s apple pie.
Looking back at those memories it makes me want to sigh. 

One time she taught me from scratch how to make her delicacy,
the correct way to kneed the dough, how much sugar to utilize-
I remember grandpa whistling an enchanting Christmas melody, 
and to this day every year I still bake those homemade pies. 
At the county fair in two thousand and nine I won first prize. 

My mother never could get the recipe right, so much time wasted,
but I prevailed every time, I guess I was a natural from the start-
My husband says it’s the most delicious food he’s ever tasted,
as I bake those warm apple pies from my amiable and gracious heart.
Last year I taught my daughter to bake, with the recipe I shan’t part. 



The Scent Of Baking Bread, 
The Scent Of Clean Sheets Fresh Off The Clothesline Poetry Contest 
Sara Kendrick
February 16, 2018

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