My rolling pin turns as silently
On its axis as the earth.
Rubbing my palm along its smooth, wooden shaft
Sets my teeth on edge,
For its abrasiveness disguises itself.
The surface reveals nothing
But perfect uniformity.
Natural etchings of amber
Swirl and speckle in the grain,
But remain two dimensional
Under my touch.
Water spots mar the raw pine blondness,
Splotching with smudges of gray,
Like ancient fingerprints.
This piece of wood belonged to my grandmother.
When I grip the handles,
I feel the warmth of her touch,
And the heat of it spreads up my arms,
Into my heart.
Anita Stubbs
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My House of Many Rooms
I am a private person, but need a place to publish my writings, which have accumulated over the years. I am in the autumn of my life, and feel the need to preserve some of what I have written in forms of poetry, short stories, and articles. I have written one novel and now am working on my second one.
I live quietly with my husband of 57 years, as of this coming November, in Texas. My ancestors first came to Texas prior to the Civil War. Other than the five or so years when we moved out of state, I have lived my life here.
Anything more you may wish to know about me, you can hopefully gather from my writings, as far as my values, my character, and my impressions of humanity -- in as much and as far as I have experienced it, or imagined it.
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Anita Stubbs 