Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
So many years, These hands, now old, Have worked at the table, kneading and rolling dough, Testing texture, Adding raisins, Walnuts, Sugar, Sprinkling cinnamon. Warming the oven, Waiting for the dough To rise, Sliding trays onto hot racks, Marking time.... She sits on her walker's chair Looks up into the camera "Oh, don't take my picture!" But how can we not? Adding these images To the memories, To the moment. The scent of baking bread, Cinnamon, Raisins, Fills the room, With 40 years' remembering... Time stops, Time reverses. The ones who stopped in... Dad, Brother, Sister, Gram, Hired Men, Grandchildren, Neighbors passing by... Some now long gone... After all, they were Only stopping in... "To grab a bite" On their way to the barn, On their way by the farm, On their way to fields, On their way to the phone, On their way to town..., But really to stop For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts Twisted into fresh, hot bread, And a cool glass of milk.
0
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
"I am so thankful for "real" work!" -Verna Bouchard, 87
So many years, These hands, now old, Have worked at the table, kneading and rolling dough, Testing texture, Adding raisins, Walnuts, Sugar, Sprinkling cinnamon. Warming the oven, Waiting for the dough To rise, Sliding trays onto hot racks, Marking time.... She sits on her walker's chair Looks up into the camera "Oh, don't take my picture!" But how can we not? Adding these images To the memories, To the moment. The scent of baking bread, Cinnamon, Raisins, Fills the room, With 40 years' remembering... Time stops, Time reverses. The ones who stopped in... Dad, Brother, Sister, Gram, Hired Men, Grandchildren, Neighbors passing by... Some now long gone... After all, they were Only stopping in... "To grab a bite" On their way to the barn, On their way by the farm, On their way to fields, On their way to the phone, On their way to town..., But really to stop For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts Twisted into fresh, hot bread, And a cool glass of milk.
She comes back to the farm in summers, opens up her kitchen once again, and bakes those twisted rolls. Time is fleeting, and we are thankful for these  precious opportunities....
don-bouchard
Written by
66/M/American
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem