In the sweet tooth season my family’s iron skillet
transformed into a raisin black moon
dusted with sugared apple stars.
A song of grandmothers’ sang through my mother’s spoon
in cinnamon dust notes and yellow butter sun
until the melody of ancestors would reach the final note,
“enough.”
Apple scented thoughts of ladder climbs
to reach heavy fruited limbs, wicker baskets, harvest,
promised growling tummies honest labor brought rewards.
On the crescendo of giggle questions mother
extinguished the sun beneath our iron skillet moon,
and dropped apple blessings into bowls even heaven wished
to taste.
Comments
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Oh Wow a sweet little poem
much love...