Smells delicious, deary. I sure do love the smell of cinnamon.
Back when I was your age, when the children were young
oh my, I remember those days.
Home was the place to be. I tell you what, all those years
of secret angel hospitality, when the winter was hostile
and Lincoln logs could start a war
That’s not what you remember. You already know this
too shall pass on a legacy of living to inherit the summer.
You remember the smell of the cinnamon.