Sunday Service

The congregation starts their flock

With desperation to be fed.

Knees tucked, hands clasped:

Give us this our daily bread.

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Our mother’s standing at the alter

The bibles closed, the prayers said.

She turns to seat us at the table

To worship in her weekly spread.

*

The impossible divinely possible

She turns old scraps to fine cuisine

Pots and pans spill their wonders

Her talents held in such esteem

*

Her hands do not know how to idle

With soups to stir and mouths to feed

Come sick, sad, or tired and weary

A perfect plate for every need.

*

Her sermons sing in my own kitchen

Her preaching infused in my blood

Every time I start to cook

I hear her tell me I am loved.

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Thank you for reading!