Perfect Cast
Cast iron skillets are not bound
By epochs, age, or eras.
They will, with proper seasoning
Endure – no! They’ll prevail
Beyond the last ding-dong of doom.
At least, that’s what I tell myself
On Saturdays, when breakfast owes
It’s flavor and its genesis
To memories cast a century ago.
These instruments and implements
Were hung along the cellar walls,
An earthen, musty chamber wrought
100 more years earlier. A half-life, or
A little more, before a deadly, fractious war
That almost killed a country and a dream.
But with a little care, these wonders gleamed
As if they had a chance to live again.
It takes some care and know-how – nothing more.
I was a boy, and have recall, of skillets
Hung on cellar walls. Not once, so far as I can reach
Were these dark pans put into use.
When later, my dad passed away,
And mother tried, but could not stay,
My wife and kids took shelter in my past.
I found them when we sadly moved,
And seasoned them with hope and love.
They’ll stay with us as long as time will last.