In the kitchen, my mother hums so low
And clear her song and morning voice
Sound like a cello, bowed for tremolo.
Some parts of the house are still asleep, by choice.
It's Saturday and not much to be done.
There may be squirrel- hunting later in the day
Or leaves to rake in the afternoon sun.
But now the kitchen sounds of pots and trays.
My mother's song fades in and out of what
She does. It's clear she stops to concentrate.
One spoon of baking powder, flour cut
With shortening, then song again. A plate
Of bacon interrupts, then she returns
To humming. The house becomes her instrument
And we, like sluggish bees, get up in turn,
Charmed out of sleep by her sung disenchantment.
Some mothers sing to babies in the womb;
Others give their children weekly lessons.
We were reared with music in the playroom,
At meals, and going to sleep. Comparisons
Like this are hard to prove but each of us
Has learned, by listening, to speak the tongue
Of instruments: my brother joined a chorus;
One sister learned the harp when she was young;
The other plays piano and guitar.
So here we listen for the household sounds
Of home: ice water pouring from a jar,
Forks, knives, the flour sifter's rhythmic rounds.
Each tone recalls our childhood's symphony
Of clanks and bangs that softnened into notes
We later learned to read. The melody
Our mother hums this morning swells and floats
Across the room, and after breakfast, when
We go our different ways, she rests, then starts
Her kitchen-orchestrations all again
With movements we come home to learn by heart.
