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