A Winter Visit

This is a chance poem; 14 pairs of words selected at random from the guide words of a dictionary. The results can be surprising.

















Outside, God was delivering a deluge. The untamed
wind cut through the slats of our wooden cabin.
I could see Mama standing by the pot bellied stove
boiling Mulligan stew. The aroma drifted through
the room causing my innards to rumble and roar.

I heard the snap from that silver clip I gave her to keep her
hair in place. Then I saw her lean over to stoke the fire.
When she tried to engage me, her first born, in idle
chit chat, I didn’t much feel like talking. My head was
burning and my throat swollen with mumps, so I let
her run on and on about Daddy’s unkempt mullet,
her decorative efforts for spring, and
how she was a better bowler now that she
controlled her allergies with antihistamines.

The bottom line is I never became abrasive as I wavered
between wakefulness and sleep. I felt her cool hand on my
forehead, then her fingers when she smoothed my tangled hair.

I woke the next morning and wrote down everything .
I tried to capture her words and her mood. …
She died last winter. I didn’t stop writing
until every page in my notebook was filled.
The aroma of her stew permeated the room.