My Mother's Hands Poem by Vada Thomas

Mastering an old family recipe, while I
Yield the dough the way I was taught, placing ingredients in a
Measuring cup and adding some
Oil, a pinch of salt, and a little vanilla; I can’t wait to
Taste each ingredient before the
Heat of the stove gets too hot to touch. I
Eat raw cookie dough while my left hand wants to
Rest on ivory, hankering to tickle a Billie Holiday tune however;
Song of Solomon continues to ring in my ears and I
Hear whispered rumors that brings me to tears
And when I look down at my hands I see long slender fingers
Nimble, dexterous and strong, and I realize they are
Descendants of my mother’s hands
Sharing lessons for me to teach the next generation

Vada Thomas 5.1.15
Acrostic Poem