Some memories grow rich with time –
of old friends and books I’ve read, The dearest and most meaningful
is of Mother’s homemade bread.
Bundled up to fight the cold,
we’d hurry home from school To the wonderful aroma
of fresh loaves laid out to cool.
Winters seemed much harsher then,
roads blocked by heavy snow Walking was our only choice
and out walking we would go.
Arriving home, feet numb with cold,
our faces fiery red
To soothing warmth of the kitchen stove
and the smell of homemade bread.
I’ve carried on this baking trend,
not a loaf came from the store I’ve beamed with pride accomplishing
what my mom had done before.