My Grandmothers Soup
Sometimes when
nightfalls of summer
feel so cold,
and everything seems dark,
I turn to the heat of
my grandmother’s soup.
Life can exist
within bone China
or simple ceramic textures,
savoring salt and spices,
but when it becomes
bland, we seek
sentimental essences
to ease our yearning.
When watercolor
sunsets break into
warm saffron hues,
I remember her soft
smile that
bestowed hope upon me,
resonating ancient
flavors seasoned
from perfectly peppered
zests of her soul.
Crumbs of
her cuisine seduce
a dull skyline
into gourmet
tamarind twilight,
as the warm touch
of her culinary run
through the hallways
of my childhood home,
like an aromatic
epitome of hand
cooked love,
she sprinkles
ingredients of faith,
marinated in minced
humor,
with lemongrass
and lentil lullabies,
in a heart-shaped
bowl of tom-yum
testimonies.
And now I sit here
reliving a distant
delicacy so close
to the taste buds
of my mind.
I will always crave
for the first course
of my grandmother’s
Friday feast,
served in a tray
of fragrant memoirs,
garnished in laughter,
cultivated with delight,
amidst the wrinkles
that reveal the recipe
to unravel euphoric
tales of her
unforgettable kitchen.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
