the house falls quiet on a rare
afternoon
all three girls spinning in their
spheres
and me alone
with my dog,
who entwines herself around my feet
as i light a candle and chop
vegetables

carrot coins and kale chunks,
onions and shallots —
these ordinary elements that are
evening’s worship
in this home, a sanctuary,
this kitchen, a place of
communion

i read today that the world
needs its artists more
than ever
and i feel again the fire
shut up in bones,
a fire that wants to make
soup a thing of beauty,
that wants to string lines
like beads,
that wants to remind of hope
in words and images and
surrender and gathering around the table

soup is an instrument, i’m sure you see,
for the melding of
feelings and fears and aspirations,
affirming the truth of need and
the gift of being fed,
tucked in between slurps
of broth
and the breaking of
bread

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