Soup

You know this slow place
It's where you go when making soup.
Soup is a slow place.
Soup has a slow pace.
Soup all mixed up
And colorfully blending,
Seasonally intending,
Sluggishly rendering; soup.

You know in your heart
What you're head cannot divine
The moment you place the ladle
Deep into that pot of summer
Vegetables and swirl
That last twist of pepper down
Down into the brew.
There in the lazy spinning
You see Thyme
Leaving the patterns of your life.

Your nose knows.
Your eyes close to savor
The images of later
When you'll bowl this bouquet
Break and dip the rosemary bread of peasantry
Until the rich color of tomato
Soaks in paced by deep inhalation,
To honor and control your salivary response,
Raise your favorite spoonful
To advancing lips and begging tongue.

Swallow slowly
Savoring the wallowed confounded
Vegetable mead
You have concocted from memory
Over the years of dreaming
The life of soup.
-Ron Crete