She hovers around the home in the evening,
Sipping on tea, watching TV,
Exchanging stories of the day –
Decisions made, realizations had;
“How was your day?” She inquires.
She potters around the kitchen
Peeking into the fridge, planning dinner,
And decides to make soup.
The pot boils and the croutons sizzle,
And breaths from many mornings ago
Play on the nape of her neck.
The sounds of oil and water
Awaken a poem inside her
Which refuses to be lost
In the eloquent prose of her life.
The poem of silence and laughter,
Of smoke and chocolate in winter afternoons,
Of late night conversations and early morning teas,
Of snow, sand, sweat and peace,
And restlessness, which surrounds her
Even as she shrugs it off.
It has already moved the rivers inside her
That threaten to fall off her eyes
And drown the beautiful prose
On the counter in front of her.
So she quickly serves out the soup
And moves to the dinner table
Away from the kitchen sounds,
Announcing, “Soup everyone.”