Poetry About Heritage

My grandmother measures flour with the cup she crossed an ocean carrying. Its handle is worn smooth where three generations have held it. At supper, an old word returns before anyone can translate it. We inherit recipes, warnings, songs, and unfinished questions. The past is not a museum when it still seasons the evening meal. I choose what to mend, what to name, and what not to pass on.

At supper, an old word returns before anyone can translate it. A family story changes slightly each time it finds a younger listener. Cloth, prayer, music, and memory travel lighter than furniture. Belonging can have several homelands and one patient heart. Tradition survives by breathing, not by standing perfectly still. Heritage is the work of carrying and becoming at once.

My grandmother measures flour with the cup she crossed an ocean carrying. The past is not a museum when it still seasons the evening meal. I choose what to mend, what to name, and what not to pass on. Belonging can have several homelands and one patient heart. The old cup waits beside tomorrow's bread. Heritage is the work of carrying and becoming at once.