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



I was told
– everyone has a perfect match
like a pot
with a missing lid
I just had to wait
for my match to be found
years and years I waited
still he did not come

I was told
– be the best you can be
perfect for the one you’re looking for
I did and still
he did not come

I was told
– be patient
– don’t settle
-perhaps you’re too picky

I stopped listening
I learned to be happy
as I am

Then –
when I was not looking
or hoping
he came along –
a single e-mail
turned to long conversations
to mutual discovery
to love and love
to our commitment of a lifetime.



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


When I run empty
I fill up with music
the one where the cello sings
and caresses my spirit
with its voice
low and sonorous
gently calling pieces of me 
to life
and lifting me up
like a lover holding me by my hands
moving  me  across the room
by a slow dance
towards the window bathe in light
there I lift my eyes
where the music glides
up towards the skies
there I float
on a bed of clouds
and meld 
with the breath 
of existence

This piece and The Swan by St. Saens, which I was listening to prior to this, inspired this little piece of poem. Listening to cello and violin pieces are a favorite way of mine to relax after a long day. I hope you enjoyed the music. 🙂



Do we even see the same person?
You see someone beautiful
I see one beyond her prime
(who kind of looks like a crone).
You get mad
that I disagree
How can you belie those many eyes
who have judged her face
her person
to be less than perfect?
She carried the sting of many years
wore the thorns like a cloak
she was what other saw
But you dare strip her
of the mold she was cast in
that I may see her
the way your love does
And I have never been as beautiful.


Daily Post:  Eyes



I met him with a luggageful of warnings. “He could be a psycho!” was my friends’ almost unanimous fear when I told them that I would meet the man I met online who happened to be from the other side of the world. After a year of extensive e-mails and expensive phonecalls, we agreed to finally meet in person. I would fly for 21 hours while he would drive 12 hours  to get to our meeting place. To appease my friends (and the little scared voice within), I did check the information he gave me against those independently available online, memorized the emergency number (9-1-1!), and arranged to meet in my brother’s apartment in Delaware.

The hour of our meeting approached. It was on a snowy December night. I parked myself on the couch by the window overlooking the road. I jumped at the sight of passing headlights. A lot later than expected, a car parked in front of our door. The door was opened before the doorbell rang. Outside stood a handsome, clean-shaven youth, cold inside his grayish woolen sweater. “Where is your stuff?” I managed to squeak after I regained my breath.

We spent two weeks together during which time, I learned that he was definitely not a murderer but, to my tastebuds’ consternation, I also learned that he was quite adept at using leftover turkey (mostly as soggy turkey rice). Meanwhile, he learned that I could not cook to save myself and that I was shorter than he thought. He gave me a ring anyway.

Sheltered butterfly
warm inside binding cocoon
foreordained  to fly


 DVerse’s Haibun Monday:  A Little Romance.  Jump into the pub for some romantic takes.



I rarely go walking. I find it burdensome to walk around town with children in tow. Half the time, I am dodging traffic and the other half, keeping rowdy children safe. There is no time to stop and enjoy the scenery, if there is any. I cannot walk at my own pace.

But we are presently in Maine visiting relatives. Where we are are woods and the quiet of a rural life. I have often lamented how I have not seen much of the area, much less of Maine, while we are visiting. Most of the time, I am stuck indoors caring for a young child while the rest of the family play and do errands in the yard or better yet in the nearest town. Sightseeing is a rarer than rare event because most of our vacation time is dedicated to house maintenance and other projects that my in-laws had set aside for my husband to do or help with.


But mornings have been different lately. My baby is old enough to be left in the care of my husband without him starving to death because Mama is not around to nurse him. On many other mornings, I have seen the sun filter through trees, ravens caw on the branches, wild turkey roam in the yard. I wanted a piece of the action. I wanted to chance to be outdoors, have some quiet time, before the rest of the family get busy.

“Take care of the baby, will you?” I asked my husband one morning while I gathered my camera. Then, I dashed off into the dewy grass towards the path to the woods. I came to a mossy patch of ground, looked down, and saw a couple of toadstools that had just peeked out of the ground along with slug-eaten mushrooms.  I heard a squawking in the distance and had a glimpse of a family of wild turkey  in the nearby graveyard.  I tried to chase them but they quickly disappeared behind the trees. I paused under the trees and admired the sun filtering through the pine needles.



Soon, I was following the long abandoned Old Town Farm Road, so named for the farm that the village had once set aside for its poorer residents. I walked mindful of the loose rocks on the ground, listening to the chirping of birds inside the forest, savoring the cool touch of breeze on my skin. A rustle in the woods startled me. I looked around and saw a tiny chipmunk peering at me at promptly skittering behind tree roots when I raised my camera for a picture.



Walking alone was a bit unnerving. I did not know what would meet me as I went along. Would there be a menacing bear, or a moose, or a murderer on the loose? Nobody would hear me if I screamed. I continued anyway hoping I would chance upon some wildlife, perhaps a deer, standing at the edge of the woods. After all, they have often visited my in-laws backyard and left a trail of destruction.


I followed the hilly road, mindful of the loose rocks covering the path. After a mile and a half or so of walking, I reached the end of the road atop a hill full of goldenrods, brown-eyed susans, and white daisies, among others, growing among the trees and wild bush. The sun was still low enough to cast shadows on the grass and on the ground. I wondered if I would go inside the meadow and thought of the deer ticks that could be on the grass.


wildflowers and bug

Alas, no deer crossed my path,   there was no scary bear either.   However, I noticed a bunny concealed in the shadow of the tall grass and did get a quick shot of it before it became aware of me and hopped away.  There were no butterflies but there were other winged insects feasting on the nectar of the wildflowers. There was the sky, the breeze, and the morning bathing me in silence and a sense of well-being.  There was myself.


Soon the hill was bathe in sunlight and my stomach said I was hungry. So I began the trek back home ready for the day.


WPC:  Morning