warmth of an approaching late spring
storm reaches through the kitchen screen door,
pushing the mind to revisit
the touch of deep soft black fur
between youths fingers,
decorations that adorned the table
are seen in minut pieces of memory,
white hand crocheted table runner
purer than the newest February snow fall,
guides the wooden table with
fresh fruit methodically placed in a wicker basket,
stopping for history there in the gentleness,
of that pale yellow kitchen,
sat a girl with uncertainties abound,
who grew to eternally be a seeker,
the storm distances in lowly rumbles of broken thunder,
carrying with it the returned moment,
leaving only a woman with a smile.
