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Rated: E · Poetry · Food/Cooking · #1633450
Remembering the life and love she gave from one little molecule.
Dying, precious time
elapsing, cooling,
mist rising, as the humid air cedes
to another dry winter’s day.

Confections captured,
preserved, yearning
for their savory freedom.
Just not now;
we wait.

Mother’s apron,
returned to the exposed nail,
hides in the shadow of the pantry.
A few of her canning jars remain,
still begging for service.

Hot tomatoes permeate
this dull kitchen,
salted away, as the red pots soak
in their frothy bath.

Clutching brown-stained mugs,
we stare out the windows at white,
remembering the industrious woman
who fed us long after parting.

We forget to listen
before the sweet harmony begins
with a single, tender metallic
ping!  Such soothing
unharmonious melody ensues.

Can you imagine?
Beneath the lid, being
that last molecule of air?
The last wisp of breath;
life exhaled before dying?

She was my oxygen.
Just one little molecule of air,
she put that there.
She gave me my first.
She gave me her last.

© Copyright 2010 Brian K Compton (ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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