Walking Back

     Photo by Mary Bach

Snow steps carry me home,

not just the mile or two back to my house,

but all the way home

back to where Grandma waited

with warm hugs and hot chocolate,

back to the little, stone house

on the edge of town

surrounded by fields of corn,

back to my climbing tree

that reached across

the path toward the hen house,

back to my childhood.

This is for dVerse where Marina Sofia asked us to write about some aspect of the snowy weather.

Why Bread Triumphs Over Death

Whenever I bake bread
Grandma is here.
I knead dough on

the board in her kitchen,

scoop flour from her bin

She hovers, ibbur-like

as I settle the dough to rise

in her thick, ocher bowl

I slide glistening loaves

in the oven and wait

in her arms

breathing in the aroma

of warm bread

This is for G-man and his kick-ass FF55 where you can read lots of cool 55 word long bits and pieces.

Image: realbakingwithrose.com

My Offering

I had the most wonderful grandma ever. She was good and kind and white-haired, just like grandmas are supposed to be. But I swear in another time my Grandma McCauley would have been a shaman or a druid. Her pale, blue eyes saw so much, even after they were covered with cataracts; and she had a wisdom that was almost other-worldly, yet so connected to the earth. Actually, the first image of Grandma that comes to mind is in the garden; she was an organic farmer long before that was cool. But I also remember her making the most wonderful homemade bread, and when I recently made the loaf pictured below my thoughts went to her.




Smell
the warm
crusty bread
my offering
fresh from the oven
kneading, resting, rising
I become my grandmother
standing in her warm, safe kitchen
we are communion through time and space
generously passing out bread and love

Smell the warm crusty bread, my offering