Thumbing through the pages,
Wondering what should I make.
It has been a while since I used this book,
Mostly because it usually means added pounds.
French Pastries and breads line the pages,
A dusting of sugar and flour line the pages.
Pate a choux calls my name, versatile and fun;
Eclairs and salambos, and cream puffs too.
Then there is the brioche, perfect rolls,
They will get their turn on Thanksgiving.
We are headed into the season of decadence
Now is the time to plan what to bake!
A flat awaits along a cobblestone path.
A wrought iron fence holding flowering baskets
Bring wide smiles to passerbys.
Heels clack up the cement steps
To a scarlet door framed by white columns
Topped by an arched window covered by iron work on top.
A Welcome sign swings from a pole,
Greeting visitors by day and night.
A brass knocker, bold and heavy,
Echoes the pounding from the guests.
Slowly, the aged hinges groan
As the heavy door opens.
A booming voice from behind bellows
“Welcome! Please come in!”
The aromas of tea and cakes waft in the air
Enticing all who knock to come inside.
A cherub faced woman waves to doily and lace covered tables,
“Please have a sit and enjoy!”
Cups and kettles, plates and trays all around.
And upon the patrons not a scowl to be found.
Scrumptious savories make the taste buds dance,
Then scones and cream calm and cleanses the palate,
And finally the sweets delight and satiate
Even the most hungry of those who imbibe.
Welcome to what I dream of as afternoon tea.
Creaks and groans escape from above;
Pounding and whistling surround;
Pelting rain smacks the windows,
While the light disappears behind gray skies.
The heat dissipates as cold air gathers on the ground,
Chilling anything brave enough to touch it.
Winds strip fading leaves of tired limbs,
Already strained from a tough year.
Gird your loins Florida…here comes Nicole.
Calming sensations take over
With each spin of the wheel
Pour, dip, paint, over and over
Turning white bisque colorful.
Swirls of jade speckled with flecks,
Then off to the dryer I go
But it’s not yet done.
Two more trips around on the wheel
And finally the chunky flecks take over.
Set aside to dry.
One more present ready to fire.
Handmade by me with love.
Autumn just might be my favorite time of the year. Dropping temperatures bring relief from our heat and humidity. I long for that occasional chill in the air.
While we may not see frost on the pumpkins, my shelves are full of carved, ceramic, and cloth reminders of these fall beauties. Oranges, golds, reds, and purple leaves scattered all about remind me of maples and aspens and birch from the north.
Aromas of apples, cinnamon, vanilla and clove fill the air. I crave warm tea lattes with seasonal flavorings, and perhaps a slice of a good pumpkin roll. It’s getting to be time to look for those Thanksgiving recipes once more. Who doesn’t love a tasty sweet potato casserole or home made pecan pie.
It’s time to pull out the three quarter sleeves in oranges, russet, and creams. Let’s open the windows on the cool nights, turn on the fans, and cozy up under blankets. Enjoy the season while it lasts!
Shy smiles on cherub faces,
Playing in the field.
Surrounded by flowers,
He picks her a fresh bouquet.
She shifts in her little white dress,
Then pecks him on his cheek.
A light blush rises to his cheeks
As he rocks on his heels.
He grabs her hand and tugs.
They run giggling down the hill.
Love at its most innocent.
Why are you home?
She asked the question.
The answer wasn’t as easy
As it would seem.
Why are you home?
Is it the warmth in your laugh
Even on a chilly day?
Is it the calmness in your demeanor
When everything has gone awry?
Why are you home?
Is it because you are willing
To call me out when needed
But kind and caring
When you do?
Why are you home?
Why does my heart feel happy,
at a quick text about your day?
Why can I tell you almost anything,
Even if I feel I’m being a fool?
Why are you home?
Then she wondered….
Am I home for you too?
She watched the horror unfold before her eyes.
Zombie like constituents lumber to the polls.
Believing their own biases are right,
Not realizing the support they give hurt them most.
While others shy away, or give up, fearing they won’t be heard.
Or thinking that it no longer will matter.
Go Vote!
The pierce of its fang sent a streak of pain into her vein.
She tried to look away, but couldn’t resist
As the vampire sucked on the red flowing tap.
A pool of warm crimson poured out
But the vampire stopped short from its sip,
And wiped its mouth, “I’m done!”
Wearily, she stood up and stumbled to the door.
Her life spared from a complete drain.
Gathered on the front patio, the crowd clattered silverware and chattered loudly. Sarah and her friends sipped on cooling iced tea and snacked on a small charcuterie board.
A plane flew over, engines roaring. It shook the building as it passed over. The patrons looked upon in shock.
Sarah was stunned, her eyes locked on the plane. The plane, a double decker airbus, seemed to stop and float midair for several moments in the sky, like a blimp on game day.
A collective gasp escaped from the crowd as the plane rolled, dove, and debris started flying. The crowd ducked as debris scattered. Shrapnel flew from the plane as it crashed over the trees in the distance.
Sirens began to fill the air as the crowd shuffled away from their covers. Sarah and her friends began heading toward the crash site to help however they could.
The police had set up a perimeter and buses moved people to staging areas. They boarded the full bus and it pulled away.
The travel to the support site felt as though it took hours. Block after block was speckled with fires and smoke. The damage from the plane seemed to stretch for several blocks.
They passed the fuselage of the plane. Dozens of emergency workers worked the scene. Some survivors staggered among the wreckage.
The bus came to a clearing aside two large fields. Smoke rose from the crops. As Sarah and her friends exited the bus, they were handed small shears. The farmer needed help saving his crops as the roses and ears of corn were needed for the towns festival. They weren’t going to be able to save it all, but anything was better than nothing.
Sarah found it odd. But there were hundreds helping throughout the town doing anything they could. She started pruning the roses, placing them in her basket.
She paused to look at one specimen and as she did, her finger brushed upon a thorn. She stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted blood.
Her body shook and she inhaled sharply, finding herself in her bed. What a strange nightmare…or was she really there?
Dawn Renee Writes 