My wife makes sure to meditate each day.
My mind’s eye can focus only for a bit,
as on a single lotus, white in quiet water
 
before I picture gaps in lakeshore lily pads,
perfect spots to cast, like Dad, a Bass-Oreno 
plug, red and white on braided nylon line 

or I row a wooden skiff alone and gather
flowers to flood Mother’s kitchen overnight
with perfume sweet and thick as Karo Syrup

or I swim the perfect blossom back to our
Potato Lake honeymoon canoe, my lovely
bride not about to skinny dip in sunshine 

or I drive our little Datsun from Eau Claire to
Chicago for Grandmama’s arrival via Greyhound
but first allow for time to linger at the Art Institute
and be embraced by water lilies floating on a wall.

On most visits, I choose a couple James Lee 
Burke or Michael Connolly detective novels 
then peruse the cookbook shelves for Carol. 

I am amused by titles like Praise the Lard, 
Herbivoracious, or down-home tomes
like Cornbread Nation and Magnolia Table

but I select books she might want to try from  
hunger-churning glossies like Maple Bacon
Biscuits, Pan-Roasted Salmon or Apple Pie Bars.

Carol’s food is legend, as in her chicken & wild 
rice soup or homemade sourdough dipped in 
her signature take on Julia’s beef bourguignon.

On occasion she offers slabs of decadence 
with a flaky crust, like rhubarb custard pie, but
sometimes she neglects her great old standards
  
like meaty tomato sauce on pasta that always 
left me toasting her with my merlot, screeching 
to reach “O Sole Mio” notes with Pavarotti.

That’s why, even though she favors recipes from 
Cooking with Master Chefs, sometimes I bring  
home Rustic Italian or Meatloaf in Every Oven.

Another winter morning drizzles past
the window. Fallen black branches etch
at random the brown hillside grass, flat 
and dull as a worn straw welcome mat.

Some years snow blows into this part 
of Virginia, but no matter how the sky 
retains its grey, such somber days call 
for toasting Carol’s sourdough bread, 
cracking farmer’s-market eggs while 
coffee brews, and opening another jar  
put up by Sue from the raspberry patch
out behind her house way Up North. 

One quick knife-back tap and a twisting grip 
release the ring. The lid marked 7/19/19
pries up with a little pop, then crushed red 
fruit gets spread across a crispy, buttered slice.
A savored tang brings back the scent of spruce,
infinite blue summer sky beyond the lake,  
cool air breezing in through cabin screens,
and poplar trees rattling tiny tambourines.