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.