Cooking.
My attempt to get back in writing poetry thanks to some online pals. 😊 Slice, chop, dice. Slice, cut, mince. Tear-ree-ayki. Par-ma-sean. Every dish made with tender loving care, and its matching aroma in the air. It starts with a sizzle and ends with a sear. Cooking up a bolognese, I learn a lot in life now I do as I please. Trimming, basting, and glaze. Sauteing, frying and deglaze. Ground pepper dust tickles my nose. All spices know no ends. But when I pick up my chef knife, I tell ya, boy do I feel free again! Like me again! The harvest of produce and its splendor, Every fluttering note of merlot, riesling and moscato, The way the honey caramelizes and how the sauce coats the back of the spoon. In these moments, the patience displayed is high quality than most of my daily interactions. I feel the comfort and the stillness of my heart. There is no traction. It's a stark comparison from its wounds and its battered parts. The satisfaction is the row