>my mother’s touch


Mom greets us at her door.
Like my grandmother, like my mother- no matter when we show up,
food (favorite food) is ready to be sliced and served.
And peeled and roasted and baked and grilled and frosted and . . . eaten.
Or whipped and spread. 
I can’t show you the photos of the scratch hot chocolate sauce she made us one night.
Like daughter, like granddaughter, we were too busy moaning
over spoonfuls of sauce melting our ice cream.
My father’s backyard, my mother’s glass. Late afternoon sunlight.
Her plum tree. This fall, she’ll turn 300 pounds of plums into jam.

My mother’s dog.    My mother’s touch.

About redmitten

author of Cracking Geodes Open, Making Good Use of August, and The Peppermint Bottle. poetry editor for IthacaLit. website: https://toomuchaugust.wordpress.com

4 responses to “>my mother’s touch

  1. >Are those glass things of your mothers insulators from power poles??? I've never seen them before. (My husband used to climb poles.)Cool post, as always, a pleasure to read your posts.

  2. >Isn't it grand to have such familiarity? Lovely photos as well…

  3. >mel- yes those are insulators. i have a series of photos of them. one day i'll post more. it's so pretty when the late afternoon sun shines through the glass. it's so nice to hear you enjoy what is going on inside my head!kerry- it is grand! i couldn't think of the right word to describe it, but yes "familiarity" is a good word for it. good to hear from you.

  4. >I have several insulators from power poles. I bought them at a surplus store because I thought they were so beautiful. Don't know what to do with them.I love everything implied by 'your mother's touch.'

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