On this ordinary Sunday
I escape into the kitchen
while the game is on
to put together chicken pot pie.
My sons, these men in the making,
will be hungry in a few hours
the way they always are
after a weekend of sleeping
and silence the other days of the week
won't allow.
My compassionate companion, the radio
plays while I cut potatoes, carrots,
celery, leeks, broccoli,
and add corn and peas--
exactly bite-sized morsels.
It is easy to find comfort
in all that has come from the garden.
I will tuck each offering
under a buttery crust
and allow abundant steam
and cream,
warm and true
as hands on aproned hips--
Mama calling the beloved
to the glowing supper table.
We will bow our heads,
thankful for the touch
of grace and the ringing of cups,
clinking a joyful toast
to this sabbath meal.
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