I wasn’t yet as tall
as the kitchen counter,
I can still see the flurry
of your hands, nimble,
within the cloud of flour,
rolling the dough flat
with the well worn pin, smooth,
You hummed, bashfully,
to Seals & Croft strumming
on the transistor radio,
the melody cutting through
the static warmth of the
chicken pot, simmering,
The noodles were thick,
in the center, barely done
the chicken, so tender,
the gravy, a salty brine
ladled on a pile
of mashed potatoes
all a symphony to savor,
Just now, on the phone,
I asked you if you could
make it for me again
when I come home to visit,
I know it won’t taste the same
the noodles will be frozen,
store bought, because your hands
are no longer nimble enough,
I just long to feel the love
that was poured from that ladle
one more time,
for a briefest of seconds
I will hold my breath,
and pray that we could,
somehow, slow down time,
if just for a little bit,
and remember how it felt
all those years ago
to have so many of
our chapters unwritten,
the anticipation
of an endless
string of tomorrows
with nothing but love and
humble innocence in our eyes.
~Eric Vance Walton~
All for now. Trust your instincts, invest in you, live boldly, and take chances.
(Gif sourced from Giphy.com.)
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Poetry should move us, it should change us, it should glitch our brains, shift our moods to another frequency. Poetry should evoke feelings of melancholy, whimsy, it should remind us what it feels like to be in love, or cause us to think about something in a completely different way. I view poetry, and all art really, as a temporary and fragile bridge between our world and a more pure and refined one. This is a world we could bring into creation if enough of us believed in it. This book is ephemera, destined to end up forgotten, lingering on some dusty shelf or tucked away in a dark attic. Yet the words, they will live on in memory. I hope these words become a part of you, bubble up into your memory when you least expect them to and make you feel a little more alive.
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