A poem born in a kitchen

I would love a poem that’s born in a kitchen
And slyly creeps as fumes through the chimney,
with a true tale of its creator, who softly sings,
Being aptly wrapped with her joys and mourns.

I would love a poem that’s duly born in a field
And mixes with breeze through sweat and mud,
With a true tale of him who sings while at work,
And dreams to live a better life with fellow folk.

I would love a poem humbly born in a cozy room,
But in dedication to them as a flower in full bloom.

Copyright © Dec. 2, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay