Brass Rings Poem by Lynn W. Petty

The house was filled with kitchen cooking smells,
Of turkey basted to a golden brown;
Potatoes, sweet and mashed, with candied yams;
Debilitating smells, of baking bread;
Hot pies of pumpkin, apple, raisin, mince,
All mingled, aromatically, like myrrh,
Transporting mystically one to their source.
I went about my designated chores;
The table set according to their age;
The little ones by Grandma, to be sure,
And I at table's head where Grandpas sit.
We heard the sounds of family on the porch.
With eager grasp, the door was opened wide.
Amid the handshakes, kisses, hugs and tears,
The children rushed to fill their Grandma's arms.
Magnolia blossom faces, open, pure,
With petal lips all puckered for a kiss,
What love so deep as grand-parental love?
Adults conversed I listened to their words.
A carousel is all life is, I thought,
How strange to hear them speak, I heard myself.
Their visions, hopes and dreams, were my brass rings,
Now theirs to chase upon a painted horse,
Around, around a predetermined course.