Tuesday, January 22, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle


If I had my druthers, I’d do just two things every day:  write poetry and make soup…a dark brown lentil soup for cold, rainy days, with enough fire to heat you;  bean soup--to remember my mom who always put ketchup in her bowl of beans;  Granny’s Cabbage Patch soup because I love the smell of simmering cabbage and onions; and about a hundred others.  I’d be writing poems like crazy, for all that soup would inspire them and I’d stop now and then to have a bowl, slice some good, yeasty bread that smelled of sun and earth.  I’d butter it thickly and pour glasses of hearty red wine, invite someone, now and then, to share, then shoo them away and write some more, till all the words and soup had run out.  Suddenly, I’d notice the moon, and you, waiting patiently for my fever to subside, and finally, I’d stop.  You would still be there, reading a book, sipping wine, stoking up the fire, and at last, there would be nothing else but to lie down beside it, and write poems all   over   each   other   all   night   long.


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