Mother is baking on the first really hot
Day in the middle of spring,
And the smells drift across my path
As I walk the freshly toasted road.
Sweet and simple as white cake,
The rambling rose welcomes me
To the smellelebration of spring.
A bit farther, spice cake honeysuckle
Beguiles my sensibilities with
Scheherazade layers of racy scent.
Not to be outdone, wastrel wisteria
Wafts rum cake intoxication to
Wind its way over my mellowed mind.
Past the olfactory factory row,
Busy woodsy lots yield to yards
Alternating the fruit tart fragrance
Of unmown white clover with
The ambrosial tea of newmown grass
Brewing on the solar stove.
Finally, I come to the homey smell of the
Field steaming in sun, the smell of green,
Frosted with mixed meadow flowers,
As essential as baking bread.
This will be the enduring aroma of
Mother's seasonal specialties
Sizzling on the grill
All summer long.