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Kitchen Door

From the driveway through the garden, to the house,

through the Spring flowers and early vegetable crowns

dotted by Irish moss and creeping winter savory

curved a peaceful path of stepping-stones.

 

There had been children, pets, bears, skunks, mice and moose.

From wood line, through the garden, or from unsettled foundation stones.

None unwelcome.

They would strut, skitdattel, and vamoose unchallenged;

if you leave out the occasional, “shoo!” with an apron.

 

There had been games, challenges, aching legs, pride slid under,

broken flowers, no flowers, whiffle ball whistles, and cries of“foul!”

It all felt the same, a few tumbles of joy and pain resolved in her ooozs

and aaaahs, as lightning and thunder was always explained

in sliding sliders, straight into her arms.

a family kitchen, was  re-arraigned for such an aim.

 

They hopped, skipped, and jumped open space

 between each stone. Sometimes with each other,

sometimes stick tapping and clacking, straggling alone.

Or, as they got older, quietly tiptoeing behind her,

as she cleared her path and  swept the stones,

they would make a loud bee buzzing sound,

scaring the “bejesus” out of her.

and maybe a little extra, waving a finger of shame.

 

I follow the stones, still well placed,feeling  the charm

and seeing her face aged and etched by the seasons.

The children’s path, though well-worn

still has the strength to hold my feet and carry me

sliding, shuffling  across the porch to the kitchen door.

 

 

[re-blog-Edit] Chapter II Love: Hot Water, Crackers, and Ketchup Soup

 

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