As Thanksgiving is upon us, a new poem I will write
of my favorite Thanksgiving ritual and right.
'Tis the rolls each year, those golden brown,
that make me grateful and eliminate frown.
Whether Nana's crescent rolls of a citrus nature,
or Mom's so fluffy from the bread maker,
I love them all, even more than the pies
And eat enough to double my thighs.
I try to wait until dinner is served,
but I tend to sneak one, which usually perturbs
the mothers who slave over the dough and the flavor
for all of their kindred to love and to savor.
I love rolls!
