White flashes of feathers

      flit overhead.

Salt teases the nostrils.

Spray flicks the rocks at my feet.


A deep-seated wooden chair

fills in for God’s arms

and the sea breeze

His caressing hand.


Tensions flee


His comforting touch.



Grandma’s kitchen spun afternoon sunlight

     off pastel blue walls

     and white metal cabinets.

Newly cleaned glass windows broke

     the lawn into four green squares

     where stood the old dinner bell

     used to call the men in from the fields

     for the noonday meal.


Today, Grandma stood in front of the stove

     stirring a pot of fresh blackberries

     for our suppertime cobbler.


Steam rose and matted wisps of white hair

     to her forehead, and her cotton dress

     hung limp.

Skin draped from her thin arms as she leaned forward

     to peer into a bubbling pot.


On the floor behind her stood a metal fan purring

     as it swung from side to side pushing heat

     around the room and out the hallway door.

The scent of biscuits baking rose from the oven

     with the heat and swirled out the door

     to mewing kittens outside the screened porch.


Bottles of amber gold freshly squeezed

     from rows of honey bee boxes stood on

     the formica-topped, metal-legged table.

The blue and white streaked linoleum floor felt

     cool to my bare feet.

Grandma glanced at me and asked,

     “Child, are you hungry?”

I nodded.

     She smiled and said,

     “I thought so. They don’t cook these kind of meals

     in the city, do they?”

“No, ma’am.”

     I sat on a stool and watched,

     learning about cooking and patience and beauty.