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Spaghetti

I’m standing here
With a glass of wine
Chopping onions,
Mushrooms, a little garlic,
You do this too, I know

Tears flow, from the drift
Of onion mist
Yet, tears of sorrow  joy
Laughter embellish
the seasoning of seasons

The sauce bubbles
With tomato’s promise
And pomp
Cheeky, this brew
That always calls us back

I grind the worries
And joys of the day
In the mortar and pestle
Until the crackling
Softens to a whisper

It blends into a powder
I add lemon, a zest
So a tingle on the palate
Remains, for a sassy taste
Amid the oregano and basil

Pasta stands tall, inflexible
Like a palace guard
But sighs in the dancing water
As that self-same guard wilts
in the summer sun

Crusty bread yields
Its yeasty breath,
With every chunk
Broken off, ragged
For the sauce

We get together like this
Abiding in moments
Of slow feeding
And talk
Savoring the evening

Barbara Greer
February 2010