In the heart of home where warm lights glow,
Mom stirs a pot, all soft and slow.
The scent drifts through each room and hall—
A savory song, a comfort call.
The sizzle starts, the onions dance,
With ground beef browned in seasoned trance.
Carrots chopped and peas so green,
A golden dream in a kitchen scene.
A splash of broth, a pinch of thyme,
Her hands move with a rhythm, time
Has taught her well the perfect way
To chase a heavy world away.
Then comes the mash, so smooth and light,
Piled high and peaked just right—
A buttery quilt, warm clouds above,
Sealed with care and baked with love.
The oven hums, the minutes tick,
Each second slow, each craving quick.
And when she lifts that bubbling dish,
It grants a wish—oh yes, that wish.
Steam rises like a holy prayer,
Potatoes browned, the meat laid bare.
One bite and all the noise is gone,
You’re safe, you’re full, you’re never alone.
For no fine feast or grand café
Could match the pie Mom makes this way—
A simple thing, yet none compare
To shepherd’s pie made with her care.
Therapy Bits 
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