Kitchen Time

By Rosemary Bergbauer Kaupp



pouring milk over

crisp squares of bread

measuring sugar

white, a winter snow

my mother

deftly cracking eggs


at my eight-year old self

eggs joining sea of milk-soaked crusts

spices measured, like approval

rich and rare

swirling storm in glass bowl

transformed by heat


older now

familiarity my recipe

I tasted, something was missing

I put it down to old age





New England roads, winding lanes

Fall in line, where cows marched

And fields like mossy carpets

Made summer days, sing siren songs, to plays


A country store, the hub where

Neighbors came for warmth

And brought their troubles

Upright, tightly lidded


The door ajar, screened in Summer

Sieved heated conversations

That trickled out to lure

The child, new fish, within


Scent of sawdust, spice and brine

Frame memory

Of frugal life and faith

The bedrock

Of a new nation


 Rosemary Kaupp