Waking at five in the morning,

reading OS,

Can I make a mean pudding?

One of many gifts

 When I remember my mother,

it is often her long, tender touch

come wafting home. 

She once led me to

her yellow Formica table

where she asked me to square

yesterday's bread

into a  rectangular Pyrex dish.

At the stove

my mother hummed

The Great Speckled Bird, 

while plumping

raisins in steam.

In a second pot,

she added cream,

and when the milk bubbled

she dropped a butter dollop.

"I found another one of your poems,

and I placed it in your box, "

she said. 

My mother had been collecting

fallen scraps for years after

her initial find If I had wings 

when I was seven. 

 "I wish you'd write them

in the notebook I gave you."

She walked to the table and

placed one hand to rest

upon my shoulder, steadying herself,

before rising on toes 

to pull a Crazy Daisy

from the cubbard shelf.

In this bowl

Fern measured sugar, spinkled

cinnamon and nutmeg,

teaspooned pure vanilla,

and broke three eggs.

She offed the whirrrrrrrrr of

the mixer, saying, 

"I liked your poem about the ocean.

I wish you'd write it in the book."

Her long fingers brushed my arm

before returning to the stove

where she lifted the settled cream. 

In the final act,

Fern poured the thickened

milk into the batter, 

She asked me to spread

my work more evenly

before she added raisins

across the top. 

"Hot honey, sit back," she said

covering the bread.

"Let's put this in to bake."