She speaks with a slow Southern drawl,
Looks at you over her shoulder
With her rolling pin in hand
Telling you to just sit right there.
She moves over nearer you,
In the way of sweet vaporous despair
Standing there hands on hips
Daring you to go around her.
She watches you watching the door,
Offers you sweet tea
Shows you the basil she’s growing
There on the window sill.
She runs her floured hands over your hair,
Pulls something sweet and new
From the oven
And sets it on the table to cool.
She sits with you, humming something low,
She settles in heavily
To sit at the table next to you
While you wait.
For Jessica Rose, who's biting her toes.
Hope, Gustav Klimpt