By Isaac Spencer

Chilly autumn mornings-
Kitchen tiles cold on my feet,
Baking bread and butter fill the air with laughs,

A recipe my grandma knew by heart,
Measured in pinches and handfuls,
Started before the sun had it’s first cup of Joe,

I would sit by the heat vent,
With a blanket she knitted,
And try to warm up,

Gnawing on cinnamon rolls made from extra dough,
Chewy, unglazed, rich and tasty,
She taught me to love the art.

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