In My Grandmother's House Everything

Smelled of Roses
She baked bread without salt
and wept for the fourteen children
she had bourne some now dead.
My brother and I
held mock funerals in her backyard
buried dolls wrapped in lace handkerchiefs.
She would stand in the doorway face white with flour
and swear at us in French.

I live in Seattle where I write and play the violin for Philharmonia Northwest. I write poetry because everything in life is extraordinary. Rebecca Loudon