Mastering an old family recipe, while I
Yield the dough the way I was taught, placing ingredients in a
Measuring cup and adding some
Oil, a pinch of salt, and a little vanilla; I can’t wait to
Taste each ingredient before the
Heat of the stove gets too hot to touch. I
Eat raw cookie dough while my left hand wants to
Rest on ivory, hankering to tickle a Billie Holiday tune however;
Song of Solomon continues to ring in my ears and I
Hear whispered rumors that brings me to tears
And when I look down at my hands I see long slender fingers
Nimble, dexterous and strong, and I realize they are
Descendants of my mother’s hands
Sharing lessons for me to teach the next generation
Vada Thomas 5.1.15
Acrostic Poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem