Sunday, March 22, 2020

A Poem: Sunday Morning

The sun criss-crosses my living room floor, 
changing the carpet from brown to gold,
the way it shifts my perspective, somehow.

Some Spanish words sung with heart over a moaning guitar,
making their way from the other side of the house,
and I write my own meaning as I cannot translate more than the feeling.

Someone is baking, and the sweet aroma is in the air,
filling me up with yearning for cookies that melt in my mouth,
the way they take me back to a childhood kitchen long since lost.

Three prints sit side-by-side over our mantel bringing vibrant women to life,
working in ancient times, printed and inked from a holy place,
and I find my own symbols in them, letting the story shift to meet me where I am.

Jenna Grinstead
Copywrite 2020

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