Morning Traditions

A cold wind
sends silver leaves shimmering,
falling to the frost tipped grass.
The hem of my dress
flutters in the breeze.
I pull my shawl tighter,
the wool warm and soft.
I pass the small garden,
the droopy sunflower stalks
waiting to drop their seeded heads,
while pink kisses their petals
as the sun begins to rise.

Coming over the hill,
I pause.
I shift the metal pail
full of creamy warm milk,
and I watch my breath,
little puffs of steam
circle from my mouth and nose.

Down below is home,
built three generations ago.
The white starched cotton curtains
peek from behind the glass,
framed by weathered whitewashed wood.
The smoke stained sandstone chimney
towers over the golden wood shakes.
As I step into the house’s warmth,
I smell the bacon and coffee
that mother is cooking on the wood stove.

The little ones tumble downstairs,
clothes not pressed and hair disheveled.
Mother and I firmly help,
running the brush through hair
and fixing suspender straps.
Neat and tidy, and finally awake,
the whole family gathers
settling around the table
hungry and ready to break our fast.
Father’s baritone voice echoes
praying for God’s blessing.

Cleaning the table,
I hear mother shoo the children to school.
Pumping the water for the wash,
I hear the familiar hum,
a loud whir as mother spins.
Great-grandmother’s wheel,
still providing for the family.
I realize as I settle on the porch,
these old traditions are home,
and I am needed to pass them on.