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The glass jars were scattered all over the house,

Stuffed full of sweetness and waiting for a mouth—

Not sugary confections, but cocoa and dark,

A chocolate sanctuary mother kept stocked.

The children would sweep through the rooms in a blur,

Emptying vessels without saying a word.

The chocolate would vanish, the glass would run bare,

And no guilty child would confess to be there.

But mother just smiled at the mystery case;

She expected the raid and accommodated the chase.

For high in the cabinet, tucked far out of sight,

Lay her private reserve for the quiet of night.

And if ever the kids breached that high, hidden shelf,

Mother still held a last hope for herself—

Safe in the pantry, bitter, unbothered, and raw, Lay the baker’s square chocolate no child ever saw.

They begin as all green living things do,

Sprouting from the earth in soft shoots of green.

Powered by the light, they reach for the sky,

Stretching tall toward the passing clouds.

Their buds widen and bloom into golden crowns,

Yellow petals encircling the heavy head of seed—

Just as a mother cradles her children in need.

The sunflower reigns as the royalty of the garden,

Rising up to match the height of a human frame.

One can only marvel at its glorious, golden power—

The flower of the Kansas soil,

The one my mother loved so.

It stood as a sentinel

Guarding the backyard.

It never demanded recognition

But always received admiration.

The rock, more like a boulder,

Stood at the corner of our house.

Offering refuge and comfort.

It did not judge,

it was not critical.

A safe haven

for all who sat and climbed on it.

It could accommodate all kids,

And cats, and even a dog.

And it did not complain.

Summers were spent

Lying on the rock

Beneath the limbs of its neighbor tree.

I would lie on the rock and daydream

In the sun with the cool breezes of a Michigan summer

Blowing over me.

King of the rock was a game would play.

The rock never demanded attention, or proclaim its existence.

It simply was.

A product of the world

Neither made or shaped by man.

Silent in its being

But providing comfort in its permanence

I could always depend on the rock being there.

A sanctuary of my childhood.

A fortress from the world.

Saturdays came with great anticipation,

I’d run downstairs on a wonderful mission.

Cartoons were on every channel, it seemed,

As Bugs, Daffy, and Road Runner beamed.

I’d watch until noon, then get banished outside,

To play all day long with a dog at my side.

At dinnertime, back to the house I would go,

Hoping that Saturday night would say “no”

To bedtime, but sweet dreams would swallow me whole—

Til I woke the next morning to…

Church.

Legend tells us the strong wield sword and steel,

rescuing the damsel to sit atop the hill.

Society tells us the strong are full of might,

imposing their will to win the loudest fight.

But history tells us the quiet ones hold the strength.

They conquer every battle without help or aid.

They slay the demons of a heavy past,

vanquishing monsters you never knew.

They endure without boasting of hidden conquests,

without recognition or parade.

The only proof of our strength

is that we are sitting

right here.