Sugar comes back to our kitchen on Holy Saturdays after a forty day absence. It feeds the yeast that leavens the dough for our favorite Easter treat, Philadelphia Sticky Buns. My husband carefully kneads the rising dough and leaves it on a covered bowl to double. Then it will be kneaded again preparatory to a second rising.

While the dough rises, my husband prepares a bed of chopped pecans, corn syrup, and brown sugar in a pan to receive the sticky bun coils. When the dough is ready, our children fight over who will help their Daddy cut and roll the dough into little buns. Each will have a turn, each one’s concentration broken either by daddy’s admonition to put the  bun right side up in the pan or by a child asking, “Is this alright, Daddy?” Soon the pan fills up with dough rolls  distinguished by the age and skill of the hands that shaped them. After awhile,   the aroma of baking bread, caramelizing sugar, and roasting pecans wafts out of the oven and fills every corner of our home.

A season to bloom
the garden yielding its fruits
heading to winter.

For Dverse Poets Haibun Monday:  From the Kitchen of Poets


A rose blooms for every soul born
the mother’s heart is a garden
expanding with each seed sown.

Her heart is never divided
into smaller portions, until it becomes
crumbs doled out to begging mouths.

Love is multiplied
and her heart is given whole
to each fruit of her womb.

Here is my baby, my fifth child.  I am so thrilled at the way he grows and learns about his world.  At the same time, somehow, I miss the days when he was but a helpless infant.  The above poem came to me when he was but little.   It should not have been a surprise, but I was still struck by the truth that I love this fifth child as fiercely as I love my first (and every) child.

Daily Post: Baby

Dverse Poets’ Open Link Night 190



How peaceful my children   look after 9:00 p.m.   How angelic are the faces peeking out of their blankets. My heart ponders and  wish that my boys  remain the little children I tuck in at night and gaze on so lovingly. Then morning comes and with it little hellions seem to possess my  angels of the night. Chaos and yelling and bickering become the order of the day.   My sweet little boys  turn into raging bulls asserting their own will.  And I fear for the future and wonder what have I been doing wrong.  Will my boys turn out right?  And I wish, I wish I can peek into the future – just the way I skip to the latter pages of a book –  to assuage my suspense. There, I wish to  find consolation or perhaps, an insight about things I need to change in the present to change a bad future. But I only have here and now.  While I wait for the future to unfold,  I enjoy the moment, do the best I can, and hope.

Seeds go underground
growing in their own sweet time

Tiny tree

For DVERSE POET PUB’s Haibun Monday # 29   (Waiting)


That moment
when I caught him
watching leaves
falling from the trees
and reaching out
with his little arms

That moment
when I saw him
snapping a hawkweed flow’r
from its stem
and staring at it
laying on his hand
for however long

that moment
when he looks at me
his lips parting
into a tentative smile
his eyes bright
with questions
he cannot ask

is magic
pure and sweet
that bring wonders
to a jaded heart.
Is there anything greater
than watching the world unfold
through the eyes of innocence?

WPC: magic

ORIGIN OF STARS (a Quadrille)

 I saw my fox fish
a star from the sea
How brightly it shone
showing its joy to be free
Then it began to crackle,
crumble into sparks
then flew like fireflies
into the skies so dark
and there they’re still
brightening the night.

This silly poem was inspired by my son’s silly rebus sentence. 🙂  

DVerse Quadrille #19:  Spark



I look at you
and I am filled with a longing
to hold you as you were –
the infant in my arms.
it seems that the sun rose
and the sun set overnight
and here you are-
an infant no more-
discovering your world on your own.
And I look at you
I see a man
carving his path in the world
and I am filled with a longing
to hold you as you were –
the infant in my arms.
I look at you
I see what was
and what will be
all at once.

WPC:  Nostalgia




            According to superstition, a child would not grow if he laid on the ground and let a cloud cross over him. That did not bother my cousins and I when, during our summer reunions, we would watch clouds while lying down on the spiky grass covering our grandparent’s yard. We would chitchat,  tease one another, and giggle until we itched from the grass or the sun got  too hot.  Although most of my cousins from my father’s side lived in other provinces, they normally visited on the feast days  of our patron saint  and during major family celebrations.  I have not been to family gatherings  for many years  now.  Many of my cousins and I  now live all over the world. A couple have even passed on.  Meanwhile, all of us had  aged but none could boast about being  tall.

White clouds on blue skies
Flock of sheep led to pasture
Dispersed by the wind


Toni Spencer hosts DVerse’s Haibun Monday:  The Sky is the Limit