Free Verse Poem about mama making biscuits.

I hear the shh, shh, shh, of the flour being sifted into the hand hewn wooden bowl that has been worn from years of use.

Mama lovingly smiles at me as she makes the crater in the flour
as she has done a hundred times.

She scoops the chilled lard into her warm hand, just the right amount,
(Always scooped never measured).

I hear the plop, plop, plop as she slowly adds the buttermilk.
Gently she kneads the flour, lard, and buttermilk
as though she were soothing an upset child.

She rolls the soft fluffy dough into a cocoon and gently pinches off the dough.
Just enough for each biscuit, rolling it into the right size from years of making them.

Each ball is gently placed on her worn biscuit tray, browned from years of use
She pats each ball down as gently as she would pat her baby’s back.

The aroma of the baking biscuits fills the kitchen as well as the house
She takes the hot perfectly golden brown biscuits from the oven

Hot and ready; the butter which melts and drips warmly down my chin with my first bite.
Mama gently wipes it away, at that moment I realize that she is showing me what love is.