Everyday,
after I scurry
about the meadows and mountains,
I scurry home.
My humble tree-house home,
my mother's humble kitchen.

She greets me,
her grin beaming,
her lavender hair like a spring lilac
in bloom,
falling about her pink shoulders,
rosy pink like fallen blossoms.

She cooks,
to warm me,
though outside, raindrops may tumble,
snowflakes dance,
there is warmth here, in cinnamon,
nutmeg here, cozy and warm

She works
like no other,
she the empress of the stove and spoon
and supper dish
the whisk her scepter, the kitchen
her palace, her wish- inspiration.

Her son,
by her feet,
her shoes pointed, like the tips of our ears.
He watches her,
His wings not yet grown,
he grows to know her art.

Her kitchen,
inside our tree,
crafted in maplewood and mushroom
sap and saffron,
Her work the heartbeat of the hearth,
the beating of robins' eggs.

Our Mother,
our giver of life,
and honeysuckle pie to fill the house
with the aroma
of sunshine and snowdrop
lemondrop and laughter.