|Still life, Checked Tablecloth, Henri Matisse|
My day began with a scant but roomy three line poem for breakfast...
Eating a Morning Poem
French bread toast
with a smear of lemon curd, a mandarin,
and a cup of tea.
It was simple, clean, fresh, pleasing, bright...all I could ideally ask of a breakfast... I composed my meal with intention and I delighted in every bit of it...the slight puckering sound of the curd jar opening for the first time; the careful slicing open of a French bread roll and the gentle flattening of it with my hands like molding a favorite pillow; the crevice filling, tart, textured spread of curd across the crunchy terrain of toast; the jeweled burst of each segment of mandarin and the residual glory of citrus that remained on my hands; the steadying fortification of hot strong tea to bring it all together.
|A Vase with Two Handles, Henri Matisse|
My day ended with the comforting rhythms and harmonies of a sonnet...rounded iambic edges, filling, chewy and yet precise. There was a bit of rice left in the bottom of a sack in the pantry and a short handful of lentils in their bag...into the pot of olive oiled and salted boiling water. A pinch of cumin into the bottom of my waiting bowl...a couple of spoonfuls of the cooking water...the lentils and rice...cracked pepper, fresh grated Parmesan, and a squeeze of lemon. A bowl of heartfelt praise, honoring joy, flavor, balance, and care.
maybe i'll try one of those poems in the kitchen...
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