Word Wine
Some days, I just don’t feel like cooking.
Somehow, I’ve let pantry and fridge run low.
Nothing right is there — I must make do.
It will be nutritious,
but the result, oh, the result.
What work it is to chew --
to ignore the slightly off flavours,
and make myself swallow
the truth.
A book of poems mellows
and grows richer with the years.
The sweet grape ferments
to the dry of wine,
thick and smooth as velvet,
berry and cinnamon savours of a black sauvignon,
luscious!
I find I am drunk with words.
Cabbage stowed airless with salt
turns delectably sour.
Cream, with patience, churns to butter.
The point of a word
turns upon itself in a sentence
to reveal another sense.
With five knives kept ultra-sharp,
the right knife will
skin, slice, core, julienne or chop
precisely.
Dripping in slippery dressing, raw,
or simmered to subtle brew —
texture calls attention,
just as words trigger feelings and thought.
And then, other days,
the garden yields such harvest
the herbs and spices sing, and then
the syllable is to poetry
as the molecule to perfume.
And the new poem is fit for a dish
to set before the Belovéd.
200 words @ 129 bpm = 1.666 mins / 1â…” minutes
© Manna Hart, Tyalgum, Jan 2019
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