Damn

Cried last night over spilled soup.

Had spent the day making it.

Shopped and took what I invented with my own wit.
Tomatoes, chicken stock, baby zucchini, carrots;
oh orange half-moons of carrot; shallots and garlic;
a lovely large deep green mildly spicy pepper,
to yield its passion and heat. Frozen containers
of tomato sauce I'd laid in this summer.

My black and white, ground peppers black red and yellow;
and the pillar I might yet become, a small tower of salt,
from the wide shores of France, the heart of my soul.

I made a very large amount, a gallon by crowd's count.
Served it steaming hot, with baguette toasted lightly brown,
and buttered for my loved ones around.

Meal ended and cleared, soup cooled and ready for the cold
where I store in winter's folds.  Lifted the remaining half
pot held tight, balanced in hands, placed carefully
on granite stone (stone's name Lady Dream, makes me moan)
freed one hand to grasp my large lovely wooden ladle;
and my strength failed.

This soup for you and I over which cried.

© Amanda 2011
12/13/2011







Things my eyes serve to suage my hungers

  

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