Mom’s Kitchen
Mom is sick,
a sad thought, but
there is one benefit,
I can finally occupy the kitchen
the forbidden lands of war
where you come out with scars, but always
a reward
I wear my mother's green apron
as if wearing armour in the battlefield.
I treat ingredients with passion,
sprinkle the seasoning carefully,
make sure to clean up.
With a little bit of confidence,
a trace of nervousness and panic,
I push the pizza
into the oven
hoping to surprise her
Floating aroma and
a good heart
and dedication
All for my mom
This poem is about:
Me
My family