"cream of wheat mornings..."

the mornings were cold in the small cottage
at the end of the lane, just beyond the circle drive
once a carriage house for carts and sleighs and
an old Jeep from just after the last great war

it now housed this family of eight children, our
parents, two cats, and a little dog named muffin
who liked to chase squirrels and watch cardinals
out beyond the picture window under the eaves

each morning it was my job to get up first and
start breakfast. yet, as many times as I did
I could never remember the proportion of water
to cream of wheat. I'd squint at the chart on the
box and multiply cups and teaspoons until
I was sure I'd have enough to feed all ten of us.

water at a rolling boil, just the right amount of
salt in the palm of my hand, thrown in with equal
parts -- style and carelessness. 

Then the grains of finely milled wheat 
sprinkled into a cauldron of steaming, bubbling 
water as slowly and evenly as those first soft 
flakes of snow now falling beyond the bird feeder

bring back to a boil, then reduce to a simmer
stirring constantly, pour into bowls -- a little milk,
a dab of butter, and as much brown sugar
as you could get away with...ten little blue bowls
of sweet warmth to carry us all the way to
school, and through the day

the youngest still making roads and valleys 
through her mush, as mother waves from the door 
and the bus pulls away from the end of the drive
a swath of dark frozen earth that quickly disappears
beneath a blanket of fresh fallen snow in February