Mammas Kitchen

Sweet are the memories that are evoked in this poetic song.

Fond are its pleasantries conjured from the warmth of home.

The linoleum countertops in the kitchen they carried such a shine.

It was a place where aromas mingled in one and twos.

It was here where one could almost always find okra frying.

Homemade apple pies rested on blue montage plates atop the window sill.

Their smells drifted in a summer breeze tempting the workers in the field.

Soon; very soon the dinner bell on the open porch would my mamma ring.

Work would then cease; the farm hands would gather beneath the trees to eat.

So long ago, oh so long ago have been the years that have silently slipped by.

Yet whenever I think of mammas kitchen, it is in joyous recollection I cry.

She’s been gone seven years now, but I can still, almost still smell them apple pies.

J. Allen Wilson © 4/2008