Warm Cinnamon

 

Borrowed Kitchen

 

We hover toward

Warm cinnamon

Hot coffee

And the smell of fresh baked bread

We rise to greet the day

And sit to bow our heads

Around the family table

Where grace and gravy flows

Over mashed potatoes

Little do we know

That all of life’s abundance

Is centered in this room

Where hands are held together

Where scent of Mom’s perfume

And Father’s intervention

Guides us along the way

As we carry conversations

In this place where we convey

Our love

 

©Kay Salady

 

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About Kay Salady

I write about the greatest force on earth that, I believe, lives on forever and surpasses all else. "All your poems read like I am watching an artist use words instead of colours full of feeling." ~Anon.

Posted on April 30, 2013, in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.

  1. Wonderful poem.

    Like

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