Cereal Bowl

Today I got into a poetic mood and just started reading tons of poetry, especially by Billy Collins and Li-Young Lee. I wrote a couple poems, but only one is ready so far for posting, I think. The following poem is especially influence by Li-Young Lee's poem "Pillow". Hope you enjoy it.

Cereal Bowl
I pour many things in there,
but morning by morning,

not mixing the circles,
round like the sun on a fair day,
the rolling wheels of cars and bicycles
that rush down the highway,

with squares,
brick walls in living rooms,
windows to clouds, impending rain.
I hear the thunder when I close my mouth.

I remember dark mornings,
my mother smelled like oatmeal
and from my room I felt the warmth
within blankets of sleep.

The taste swirled with cinnamon
and thick cream, lining my insides
as if a shield against the day,
the sharp words I took in.

But one weekend I slept in
alone to a noon of silence,
a puddle of time untouched by wind,
a reflection of years flying overhead.

I descended the valley of stairs
to the cold floor and haunted table
to slowly fill my bowl
with crushed wheat,

once baked by wrinkled hands,
now wet with white milk.

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What do you think? What feelings does it bring up in you? Memories? Tell me what you think.