rituals

let it be a white and round little house as if carved in a big pumpkin
so there is room enough for both grandpa and grandma
and for all my memories
the Naumann sewing machine the cuckoo clock in the front room
the handkerchiefs perfectly folded twice the candles spreading light
over the old photos hanging in frames on the walls
let me sleep like a baby hare between big down pillows with my feet
touching the warm terracotta stove tiles
let the bread dough in the trough raise by itself until the crust breaks
grandma makes the sign of cross over it and cuts it in seven
pours a drop of consecrated water over it
from that green pitcher with a thread of basil
to bring God too at our diner table
grandpa lights a terrible fire that makes you feel your knees mellow
he places the teakettle with wine on the stove for it is mid winter
and even the child could taste a mouthful
grandma sprinkles cinnamon from a small sachet hidden in the cupboard
she puts on her sheepskin vest with oblong buttons
and fetches another bucket of water from the well
while I sort out good white beans for our soup

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Categories: My poems in 2016, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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