"Granny" (Helen Stainbrook)
image from poetess' personal scrapbook
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The kitchen hums~ flour dust in the air like December’s first snow. Her knuckles, cracked as the recipe card’s edges, work butter into sugar, a sacrament of crumbling. Cinnamon whispers the old language~ the one she brought over in a tin, tucked between hymn books and grief. The oven sighs. The dough remembers. When it emerges golden, crackled~ we eat it warm, our fingers sticky with the past.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
