When the aprons mingle, women clucking like hens
discussing ancestral wisdom from way back when
The ancestors live in gestured words
the matriarchal echoes of blood’s songbirds
Strum the butter pat to the rhythm of snipped beans
lower the babies down from the hips of Queens
biscuits on the table, floured dough, cut rounds
the mother’s mother’s hands knead risen dough down
No family recipes laid writ in tattered tomes
each muscle memory “how to” made the house a home.
Where the aprons mingle clucking women like the hens
granting the ancestral wisdom from times long spent
Love this!! Takes me back to Saturday baking days in my mom’s kitchen!