As I reached into the bread box
for two slices of sandwich loaf,
I saw the biscuits you made on Monday morning
while I was doing the feeding.
My mom made biscuits
nearly every morning
while we were milking the cows.
Paul and I would come back to the house,
get ready for school
while Dad finished up the cleaning
in the milk shed.
The smell of biscuits and bacon
cooking in the kitchen
called us to be quick
about getting cleaned up
and to the table.
I still remember
how homemade butter and jelly
thinned on hot biscuits
and when the eggs were all gone
and Mom wasn’t looking,
I’d rub my finger across the plate
and lick the last taste of sorghum molasses.
There are worse ways to start a day
than by showing love with something
as warm and fine
as homemade biscuits.