A film of frost
gathered the gold
of morning sun
on the window,
poured it softly,
like warm milk,
into the kitchen
where Delia
stood working,
embracing her
with a radiance
like the words
of her prayer
being whispered
to the music
of preparations
for another day.
© 1998
(originally published in A New Song)
Delia was my grandmother. I can still see her in that cold kitchen, the old wood-burning stove starting to throw out some heat, the skillet in place, waiting for warmth, a dab of oleo, an egg.
The kitchen faced west, but there was a side window that caught a bit of the morning sun. That's where the "film of frost gathered the gold ... poured it softly, like warm milk ... "
Of course, our memories become polished with much handling ... they take on a sheen far beyond that of the original event, and that has happened with this mental picture I still carry with me.
Oh, how I treasure it.
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5 comments:
What a perfect capture of a moment.
Such warm thoughts, memories...........awwwwwwwwwwww, so wonderful indeed..........Stormie
Thank you for posting your poem and personal comments. My gram recently passed away unexpectedly. She was my best friend, the last of our very small family. While I mourn her loss, I treasure my memories of her life far more. Your poem reminded me of her smiling face :-)
I'm wondering how long ago this was, your age, her age, and does the house still exist now. Where this took place. Your poem arouses many pleasant questions. Beautiful work.
As I read my heart smiles as I close my eyes and feel myself drift back to my grandma Baker's kitchen. A warm cozy room with a big fireplace that you could see straight through to the other side into the back porch, which also served as a bedroom for company. My grandma, a beautiful round woman that looked just like Andy Taylors's Aunt Bee would stand on those old brick floors and churn homemade buttermilk for hours. It was delicious.
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