Fry me some eggs, sunny side up

with strips of sizzling bacon

in a cast iron pan rescued

from my grandmother’s kitchen.

Grind me some coffee beans,

not in some electric

whirring cloud of noise,

but in an old wooden box

like grandpa used to have.

Bake me some fluffy biscuits

from scratch, filled with loving air,

cut to perfection, served

with farm fresh butter,

harvested golden hive honey.

Sit with me on a spring morning

in your apron covered pastel dress,

speak to me of lilacs, kitchen gardens,

little children playing in the hay,

dog sleeping on the porch

on an idyllic summer morning.