The Soup
All those times she took out her tablecloth and spread it
'O so gently'
kept me coming back.
It was her soup I'd see;
the celery bits I'd act.
A broth to be tapped
of oil not strewn.
As thick as the sun
but thin to the spoon.
With bowls like skirts
defending their space.
On modest placemats
marked for grace.
Down splendored chairs
of darkened walnut
My eyes remember
the meal; the moment.
And on her face
her smile and grace
Remind me of
a better place.
Copyright © Trevor Mcleod | Year Posted 2006
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