Interesting insights VettyC! I had already made some of these changes (and a few more) to this poem. You offer other suggestions that I hadn’t even considered (yet), though I have revisited it several times re-reading & tweaking and still not feeling finished enough to re-post. I think, maybe, I am there now, and offer this update:
Your soup ladle, your sifter,
Your roasting pan from Sunday suppers
These are in my kitchen now.
(The daughter that doesnt cook)
Because we needed that touchstone to our childhood
Our springs your summers and autumns.
We were all connected then
Through proximity and family rituals
Morning routines, diurnal rhythms, dinner dialogue.
Still, sometimes, our timing was less than perfect
One Hungry for attention,
One Too Busy to comply.
Over time and distance
The rites remained the same
Only the roles changed.
And yet somehow,
Despite time and space,
The connection remains
Still imperfect perhaps
But carefully nurtured and tended
By some unseen hand,
Some tentative invisible magic.
Dinner will be eaten in my kitchen
The turkey (roasted in your pan)
The soup (served from your ladle).
The sifter will be perched in its place of honor
(Serving as sentry
Keeper of the peace)
And well gather together
Confident in our ability
To ensure that
Will go home