The new white timer sitting on the table
brought to mind another such timer,
identical, except red and old.
Heat had molded part of its side
to the metal buzzer inside.
The memory-image so real,
I could almost touch that Dali-esque side,
and feel the faint coat of grease.
Why should it be so vivid?

That was my Gramma's timer.
She had used it to time the cooking of many good things,
pumpkin pies, blueberry pies,
all manner of tasty foods.
In her sunny yellow kitchen,
with the blue and white dishes,
we'd sit and eat,
sip tea,
and enjoy the warmth
of the sun shining in
and the closeness we shared.

Just a small plastic timer,
but large with memories.