It was raining cold and bitter
As I hurried toward the door,
Knowing Mom was in the kitchen,
So good treats would be in store.
Smells of home assailed my senses;
Mom was baking apple pie.
Biscuits fresh, right from the oven
Piping hot, they caught my eye.
Pinto beans were cooking slowly
While outside was winter storm.
Momma leaned to hug me tightly,
Making me feel safe and warm.
Pictures sweet, I’ve carried with me
Everywhere that I would roam;
Memories of my Momma’s kitchen
And those lovely smells of home.
Copyright © 1998 by moleta ruth mccarter. All rights reserved.
