A maker so sweet,

Like a baker that steeps,

His beets,

And it so happened,

To be swaying the butter out; to layer powered dough so neat.

For when,

The tree bark finally snaps,

Your inherited herbs of light, cool, and its airy hairs..

What a beautiful “take me back.”

And so it will be,

When a small flowery plate, scoots,

Right up towards me,

A desired blissful epitome,

Of every nurturing nest,

Like a zucchini that steals my hunger,

Grandmother,

You are,

My pot of Earl Grey tea.

A stomach that flips to settle,

Because you are my corn,

To its unused kettle.

Every spoon that stirs the pot,

Becomes the near fork,

To my watering mouth,

Back to my cotton-less cot.

I’ll be as far as heaven,

Next time you think I didn’t watch,

As you tirelessly cooked to your graveyard plot.