Poetry by Patricia Hope
Oh, ye brown and velvety purveyor
of best-smelling houses, sometimes
rolled in icing-covered rounds or mixed
with pumpkin for a pie or sprinkled
over sugar cookies—you are cinnamon,
king of Christmas spices.
Oh, poignant sage, rubbed, of course,
mixed with cornbread crumbs, chopped
celery and onion, broth from a roasted bird,
eggs and black pepper, spread into a pan
and baked as dressing, your warmth
wafting through the house.
The world could not get through Christmas
without your herb tea or candied pieces. From
your rhizomes to your yellow-purple flowers,
we must have ginger for our ginger ale, ginger beer
or cakes, cookies, or mixed with molasses
for an irresistible gingerbread.
You grow in the islands but your warm sweet
flavor says Let it Snow when sprinkled over
creamy eggnog or sistered with cinnamon in apple pie.
From the Middle Ages to the 2020s, nutmeg,
your nutty aroma is a Christmas staple.
Our homes would smell empty without the pungent
fragrance of snickerdoodles, cornbread dressing,
gingerbread, and eggnog. Wise men and women know
without spices, there would be nothing but an overgrown
evergreen and odorless mistletoe to point us
home for the holidays.
Patricia Hope’s award-winning writing has appeared in The Bluebird Word, MockingHeart Review, Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Guideposts’ Blessed by His Love, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Agape Review, Spirit Fire Review, Dog Throat Journal, American Diversity, and many newspapers, magazines, and anthologies. She lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
