Occasionally, she looks at me and
A smile illumes her face,
Her needles don’t stop, if she’s looking or not–
They click an impressive pace.
From the fat wood stove comes a heavenly smell,
It’s stew, with dumplings atop.
“Throw on some wood, please dear, if you could
And don’t take the lid off that pot.”
The clock on the mantle chimes out the hour,
Anna lays her knitting aside.
The clatter of plates means that supper awaits,
At precisely a quarter of five.
A chunk of warm bread dipped in savory stew,
We all feast this traditional fare–
Family together, no matter the weather,
We’re blissfully all unaware.
And when bruise-colored shadows descend on gold fields
And the sky in the west loses light,
We reluctantly leave the warmth we received,
And set off for home in the night.
Anna stands in the window and waves a goodbye
Then dutifully winds the old clock,
Soon the click of her knitting, her squeaky chair-sitting,
Blend in with the soft tick and tock.
[poem © Nancy Bond]
graphic googled here