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- home again to hall streetmy grandmothers kitchen is the samebig and yellow and smelling of the pound cake she's made us to welcome us back.and now in the late afternoon she is standing at the sink tearing collards beneath cool running water, while crows caw outsideand the sun sinks into a red and gold When hope lets the door slam,she fusses,Boy, don't you slam my door again! and my brother says, I'm sorry.just like alwaysSoon, there will be lemonade on the porch,the swing whining the same early evening songit always singsmy brother and sister with the checker set between them me next to my grandfather, falling asleep againsthis thin shoulder.And its not even strange that it feels the wayits always feltlike the place we belong to like home.
- I chose this poem because I spend a lot of time at my grandparent's house. they are very southern and I can relate easily to that. My grandmother loves cooking and every visit feels the same but it is wonderful. My sister usually goes with me so I have the siblings relativity to.
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