the tinkling piano keys
remind me of home.
the dining room at four
when Sunday afternoons
smelled happy and good.
my mom in her apron,
smile braving
her freckled face,
gave me, her oldest
boy child,
a calm nourished
place.
the piano keys tinkle
and toast in fireplace
warmth,
pot roast floats homeward
on a gravy slathered sea,
grease potatoes bloom
with onion, garlic
and bay leaf,
hot berry pie sings out
our sweetest dessert,
as February sunshine fades
in winter’s broad arms,
music dissolves
gently in time,
six eager faces soften
while we sit down
famished together
at this long wooden
table,
these Lautz
family members
at this blessed
moment,
a kooky
grateful
crew,
guts growling
in anticipation
of taste bud
titillation.
No comments:
Post a Comment