Dust Covered Ambrosia

DUST-COVERED AMBROSIA

                                       My eyes tight shut are reviewing the past
                                       As I drift through this night on a sleepless cloud,
                                       Where memories from childhood are with me at last,
                                       Blanketing my thoughts in a vivid shroud.

                                       I can lightly skip through time and space:
                                       Nearly touching a dear one whose soul is now gone;
                                       Glimpsing each wrinkle on a kind, loving face;
                                       Even hearing the words to which I was drawn.

                                       More often than not my thoughts come to rest
                                       In a big old house---many miles from home---
                                       Where those red-letter weekends were always the best,
                                       Allowing me time and the freedom to roam.

                                       Each room billowed forth with its own lucious smells,
                                       That cling to my senses like cobwebs in trees---
                                       Where the air rushing through gently lifts and swells,
                                       Before stealing them off to float with the breeze.

                                       I recall the steamy aroma of home-baked bread
                                       Flooding from a table that still smelled of wood;
                                       And how Grandma covered it with a linen spread,
                                       Fondly tucking in corners to make a chafing hood.

                                       My mouth faintly waters as I delectably dream
                                       Of that good canned meat in those big glass jars,
                                       Or milk in a jelly glass---that's yellow with cream---
                                       For washing down old-time snickerdoodle bars.

                                       Whether winter or summer, it still held its charm
                                       In the sparkling bright sunshine or glitter of snow;
                                       And Grandma would say while lightly holding my arm,
                                       "Now Petty, be careful! And watch where you go."

                                       Gingerly off to the barn I would romp:
                                       Breathing the balm of corn and loose hay;
                                       Or the pungent, sweet silage the cows loved to chomp;
                                       While for oats and molasses the horses would neigh.

                                       Springtime let lilacs fill the misty air;
                                       And around them, tulips would sway and hover
                                       Over lilies of the valley so white and fair---
                                       Caressing the lawn with their boutonnier cover.

                                       Then later the peonies sprang out like a flame,
                                       As did wild verbena across the land;
                                       Radiant in crimson and flushed with rouge they came,
                                       Dancing, stately and proud, like a rollicking band.

                                       Back in the house, when supper drew near
                                       I might accompany Grandfather off to the cellar---
                                       Where the earth's spongy dampness I remember so dear
                                       As I stood by the side of that whiskered old feller.

                                       We'd bring up some jars full of rutabagas or corn;
                                       That trap door in the floor they'd lower down tight;
                                       Then a table with cowslips I'd carefully adorn,
                                       While sniffing their fragrance with all of my might.

                                       Later on in the evening I'd examine each room---
                                       From that spicy pantry with a creaky worn floor,
                                       All through the upstairs of its wall-papered womb,
                                       Till I made my way back to the kitchen once more.

                                       There I'd refresh by the water pail's weeping shine,
                                       From a long-handled dipper fashioned in tin.
                                       The taste of the water---slightly soft---was so fine
                                       As it dripped from my lips and rolled down my chin.

                                       While twilight melted the shadows away,
                                       The elders would savor their steaming coffee.
                                       And I, in another room would play
                                       As they sipped and chatted ever so softly.

                                       I poked all around. Every place I recall---
                                       From that mothballed trunk in its cedar closet
                                       To horse magazines garnering the stairway hall.
                                       As I fondly bethink, each left some binding deposit.

                                       Bygone treasures seen from that high-backed couch
                                       I still ponder and enjoy, as if they were mine;
                                       Like some fragile glass beads in a satin pouch,
                                       Or those taffeta draperies, all dripping in shades of wine.

                                       Here crocheted doilies and hairpin lace,
                                       Like tatted spreads and braided rugs,
                                       My mind's eye---with a clinging embrace---
                                       Ties the knots that a heartstring tugs.

                                       Out from the wall stood a pot-bellied stove
                                       With silvery filigree so burnished and grand.
                                       The firewood on the floor formed a chestnut trove,
                                       In a mixture of incense that was pleasantly bland.

                                       Slipping through a curtain, into their chamber I came.
                                       An appliqued coverlet neatly scalloped the bed;
                                       Its downy soft mattress and squiggly frame
                                       Had shining brass knobs at foot and head.

                                       The dresser I see cloaked with trinkets and bottles,
                                       While porcelain handles and solid oak base
                                       Are so far removed from the frippery it coddles,
                                       Or the handmade flowers in that sugar-spun vase.

                                       The redolent mixture of lingering perfume
                                       ---Like seductive vapors from utopia cast down---
                                       Hung in the closeness of that one-window room,
                                       Forming its haunting bouquet for a crown.

                                       Each corner entrusted something familiar, yet new---
                                       From a knickknack shelf gently rounding one angle
                                       To that old, iron crib brushed in periwinkle blue,
                                       As a pallid light barely caught its fading spangle.

                                       When bedtime drew near I'd return aloft,
                                       Where the crackling wood of a nighttime fire
                                       Left a faint trace of smoke, to rise and waft
                                       Like the slippery shadow of a flexible wire.

                                       Clambering to bed---I burrowed in cozy
                                       Under a patchwork quilt or soft feather tick,
                                       To think of this day that had been so rosy,
                                       And how its reflections in my mind would stick.

                                       Drawing a deep breath, my gaze stared blank . . .
                                       While off in some niche I vaguely recall
                                       A vintage wood cradle---as beneath the keepsakes it sank---
                                       Imparting an era I couldn't remember at all.

                                       Then before closing, tempted eyes sought out
                                       ---Through tiny florets and faded nosegays---
                                       Tattered clefts in the wallpaper where plaster peeked out,
                                       Silhouetting faint images in that phantom haze.

                                       Such memories may tickle the senses,
                                       Leaving behind a definite yearning
                                       To cross back over those vanishing fences
                                       That time and neglect are slowly burning.

                                       But remember this and keep in mind:
                                       Tomorrow---today will have gathered some dust,
                                       And the smiles of the morning will soon fall behind
                                       The shadows of remembrance in which we trust.

                                       Like soft rose petals or sweet lilac scent,
                                       You savor each whiff, but the taste is forbidden . . .
                                       While those things beyond touch---with deepest repent---
                                       In an unending space will always be hidden.

---Sandra Hookham
(horsetrainer)