Grandma's Kitchen
The kitchen, on the weekend mornings
When company came for a visit,
Habitually simmered like a cauldron of furious activity.
Despite a balmy morning on a September day,
The temperature rising by the moment
My grandmother would stand,
Red faced at her kitchen table
Rubbing flour and butter briskly
Through her fingers into a large mixing bowl
Apples already peeled and sliced would lay
Like pale green petals in the pie plate,
Waiting for the crumbled topping.
She may have fallen asleep the evening before
In her big, fat, over-stuffed chair
Long before her house guests had even
Stifled a lazy yawn
But on this bright, sunny morning
She was as young as a new bride.
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