Poetry Month, Poem A Day, No. 12
An Ode to My Mom’s Scones
Not quite a cake, much less investment
not nearly as ordinary or typical as toast.
Doesn’t matter if you do, or if you don’t dress it
guarantees pleasure for hand, mouth and nose.
The Irish claim it, the British take credit,
but my American mom’s are unsurpassed.
Sundays or birthdays, always so splendid
freshly baked then lovingly stacked.
The fragrance takes hold, who could resist?
I slide up to the counter, “For me?”
Buttery, flaky, honey, delicious!
I’ll have another, a third, I’m a queen!
The blurry image? oh, that w/b mine . . .