Scraps
Speaking you say words inaudible to my heart
words that leave me hungry for sustenance
craving something more than leftovers for my soul
which requires nourishment only commitment can serve.
**
Big Mama
The old woman sifts her soft, white flour
in a wooden bowl aged with time and wear.
She works the dough with her wrinkled hands,
spotted by time which quickly passed her by.
She gazes out her kitchen window,
watching the rising sun announce a new day.
The clear drinking glass cuts the smoothed out dough,
making perfectly sized circles, each the same.
Her hands of creation have loved and comforted,
plowed and plucked, with grace and with sorrow.
She is the setting sun that brings beautiful colors to the sky,
birthing truth that only comes to life only through time.
Her rays of warmth stretch upwardly to generations that have gone on, to
those who are yet to breathe hope into the world, and we who hunger now.
Round circles of dough are placed in the hot oven where they will
rise slowly, encouraged by the heat that gives them life.
This is her song; warm biscuits on a cold day
that nourish and feed the ones she loves; those who treasure her.
She sits in her rocker, understanding that her task for now,
is almost dome, completed one sunset at a time.
Back and forth she waits, coming and going, living and
dying, smiling because she knows:
She does not live by bread alone.
