Generations of Women

Hot Chocolate


Cold evening

Hot chocolate

Remembering

You

Thank you

For being my friend

Even if it had to end

Your friendship

Lives richly in our sharing

Cold evenings

Hot Chocolate

2019 copyright © CMM

Little Time


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we will both grow old,
our youth wasted in time

rusted planks of life
jutting out

feeling the days gone past
looking for a sign

we will understand how
little time we tout

until now, we look and see
our hands and body weathered

I will smile and feel the
glow of our youth

even though the shifts
are tethered

Copyrighted: 2018 CMM

The Gift


I find myself (as I do every Christmas) thinking back to a

special lady who always made Christmas so loving. There was

one gift I always remember and treasure is the one from Grandma.

She was old and retired. She was living on a very limited

income. Each Christmas she would set up a tree no taller than

Two feet. It was artificial and set on a little table covered with cotton

from old boxes, replicating snow.

She would take the little money she had and buy each of her

grandchildren hose for the girls and socks for the boys.

Today I remember her going to the little tree. Her hands had

become old with swollen joints and trembled just a little as

she picked up the little gift wrapped in thin paper from the year

before. There was always a thin ribbon, usually red tied so carefully.

Handing me the little gift, she would say, “It’s not much.” I

would always smile to her and say, “Grandma, you have no idea

how much I needed hose.” She would smile and sit next to the

little tree.

Today that gift keeps giving back to me. It was love.

 

copyrighted:  2012 CMM

Moments Soup


It is the parsley speckles floating in my soup,

 

as I sit looking outside the French doors.

 

Winter’s drizzle leaves traces downward

 

as time has left the traces which bring me to reflect.

 

 

Warm soup lifts in the steam left over

 

from the heat of the pot recently served,

 

brings warm thoughts of a time

 

brought by the seasons of another time.

 

 

A moment on a still chilled morning,

 

browns from the outer doors,

 

the dripping from the roof makes

 

all else in the world un-felt by it’s nature.

 

 

In this morning’s nature of warm soup and rain,

 

I have sat my day’s readings aside written of women’s

 

conflict and strife to feel the privilege testimony

 

that only a morning of notice would allow.

 

 

I think of the histories of history and I go.

 

I go far back to the shadows of Grandma and Mother.

 

I feel their aroma in the warmth of my soup.

 

With a clandestine smile, I have realized the ingredients

 

which made them survive—

 

 

copyrighted: CMM 2005
revised:  CMM 2012