Today I come to tell about the breeze that
blew off the Cap Rock this morning,
kissing the Brazos Salt Fork,
caressing Mesquite and Post Oak,
Careless and Tumble Weed.
This wind carried memories
of my dead parents; echoes calling me
home to supper, the clatter of table talk above
the din of silverware and dinner plates,
ice cubes colliding in Mason jars
brimmed with sugared tea, along with
my mother?s frets and my father?s calm.
There on the edge of Stonewall County,
in the kitchen of a clapboard house,
we gathered around the yellow dinette set,
grounded by the expected, the usual,
the ritual of our daily bread.
|