.
Yesterday’s newspaper, thin
hickory strips, strike a
match on the cold
cement
floor. When I was a
kid, men struck
matches on zippered
.
fronts
of Wrangler jeans.
.
Set the kettle on wood
cookstove – pepper, salt,
fry two eggs, ham steaks
in cast-iron.
Slather
toast with spicy
mustard. Pour
boiling water over morning’s
grounds,
plunge, press
.
slow.
Strike another
.
match,
hold it tip
to tip with an
incense stick – I become
amber –
pine pitch escaping
to the woods with my kid sister;
sandalwood –
college days meeting
hairy-legged
hippy girls
at the food co-op (who knew all girls
.
didn’t
want to be smooth?). See how
.
the smoke
curls, stretches
thin? Just like
grandma’s
white cigarettes burning down orange
ashtray embers between
puffs, as she drank
.
tin
can, pre-ground coffee, and forked
.
bacon from cast-iron. I want
to blow smoke
circles painted
ruddy with lips like hers.
Instead, I lick
mustard off
her old serrated knife.
.
Daily over
news, coffee and food
I bend
low.
.
.
SimplyDarlene 
Without ever saying it, your love for the morning ritual bleeds through these images. Oh my, where to begin?
Maybe with the spicy-mustard slathered toast? I will try this soon.
plunge, press~that’s how I coffee in the morning, too!
I become amber-pine pitch~slowly sinking into memories. Linking the smoke swirls of the incense with grandmother’s smoke curls.
Bending low. Paying homage. Exquisite.
Amazing how quickly life gets behind us. Love the recollections of a life, where the simple becomes extraordinary. Well done.
Simpler times…a good place to be!