Moments Soup

It is the parsley speckles floating in my soup,

 

as I sit looking outside the French doors.

 

Winter’s drizzle leaves traces downward

 

as time has left the traces which bring me to reflect.

 

 

Warm soup lifts in the steam left over

 

from the heat of the pot recently served,

 

brings warm thoughts of a time

 

brought by the seasons of another time.

 

 

A moment on a still chilled morning,

 

browns from the outer doors,

 

the dripping from the roof makes

 

all else in the world un-felt by it’s nature.

 

 

In this morning’s nature of warm soup and rain,

 

I have sat my day’s readings aside written of women’s

 

conflict and strife to feel the privilege testimony

 

that only a morning of notice would allow.

 

 

I think of the histories of history and I go.

 

I go far back to the shadows of Grandma and Mother.

 

I feel their aroma in the warmth of my soup.

 

With a clandestine smile, I have realized the ingredients

 

which made them survive—

 

 

copyrighted: CMM 2005
revised:  CMM 2012

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