by Susan Lower

Created on: April 11, 2008

My mother's kitchen was worn with age.
In the old farm house,
where we lived and played.

She kept it nice and tidy.
The glasses always washed.
Not a plate out of place.

On the old red linoleum floors.
I did roller skate.

I learned to bake a cake.
Without a book, without any taste.

There I watched from the window,
my sisters kiss their dates.

My mother's kitchen held a telephone.
Where my sisters stretched the cord,
and hid behind the next door.

Inside the wall of this place.
Comfort grew without the frills of lace.
Never were we late
when Mother called us in from the barn.

My mother's kitchen is where I knew she'd be.
When I came racing home from school.
She always stood waiting for me.

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