Momma’s favorite bowl was golden
Trimmed with brown, for kneading dough.
Every day she sifted flour
For the biscuits we loved so.
She pinched off the dough, then rolled it,
Patting it out with loving hands;
With a sprinkle of flour upon it
She dropped biscuits onto the pan.
I miss seeing momma kneading,
Miss always having her around;
And I miss the sweet aroma
Of Momma’s biscuits as they browned.
Copyright © 2009 by moleta ruth mccarter. All rights reserved.
