Chilly autumn mornings-
Kitchen tiles cold on my feet,
Baking bread and butter fill the air with laughs,
A recipe my grandma knew by heart,
Measured in pinches and handfuls,
Started before the sun had it's first cup of Joe,
I would sit by the heat vent,
With a blanket she knitted,
And try to warm up,
Gnawing on cinnamon rolls made from extra dough,
Chewy, unglazed, rich and tasty,
She taught me to love the art.
I miss her. She taught me to bake, to enjoy it. Those were the good ol' days. Carefree, fun.