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Posts Tagged ‘bake’

UNTIL NEXT YEAR

‘Tis the evening of Christmas and in our old house
The snoring shakes windows . . . I speak of my spouse
He said he’s exhausted, though not one to shirk
He just looked on, as I did the work

I purchased and wrapped ….. ‘twas left up to me
Baked cookies galore and put up the tree
Now the kids are playing with a few old toys
The new ones are broken; so much for new joys

The floor is quite messy with boxes and bows
And discarded ribbons . . . along with new clothes
New puppy just did what puppies do best
He wet on the floor, his hourly quest.

The fireplace clogged – I was choking on smoke
My husband kept snoring and never awoke
The tree got knocked over – I cleaned up the mess
What happens next, is anyone’s guess

Hot chocolate spilled from a broken mug
And cookies got ground right into the rug
The turkey’s a carcass, the leftover’s, few
I’m left with the dishes, but that’s nothing new

And out in the kitchen where pans are piled high
I scrub and I scour, and I sigh . . . and I sigh
Am I tired? You bet! I’ve stayed up too late
So fell fast asleep with my face in my plate

We waited all year for this wonderful day
And I’m glad that the next one’s A FULL YEAR AWAY

11/22/95 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck
(revised 12/02)

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MAMA’S PRECIOUS HANDS

Her hands were small and wrinkled
The veins large and blue
They had toiled long and hard
As mothers’ hands do
In years they were less agile
And so, moved rather slow
A sad part of growing old
I wish it were not so

They loved to write a story
To draw and write a rhyme
But it didn’t happen often
As they could not find the time
For they made almost all my clothes
And how that needle flew
They cooked and baked and canned
And made a garden, too

They milked the cow twice a day
Culled eggs from the nest
Scrubbed the floors and washed the clothes
Her hands could find no rest
And even if she found some time
That freed her just to sit
Her hands were busy mending clothes
I said, they never quit

And when I journey back in time
With memory’s sweet recall
I feel those hands on fevered brow
When I was very small
They also had a magic touch
When tending scraped knees
Or burns or cuts or bruises
Putting frightened child at ease

When death finally stilled them
They were folded in repose
They looked so small and fragile
As they clasp a single rose
I bent and kissed those precious hands
For all they’d done for me
But I still see them full of life
In frequent memory

3/8/89 Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

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