Always on the cutting board.
All wood when wood was wood.
A little cliff in the kitchen;
A jut in my memory.
Neighborhood drugstore delivered.
Or some half-gallon such.
A tarnished-but-polished spoon.
One favored china bowl.
The near-noon sun through a window.
“As much as you want,” she’d grin.
In her folds, feathered authenticity.
Most Sundays after church.
I’ve found more filling things are rare.
Needed a footstool then.
But, then, I haven’t had sherbet in years.
Poetry: Breaking Fast