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Tomato Soup
I never liked tomato soup -
that thick slurry of red
in a white bowl - childhood
winters, Friday nights
with a menacing dark
pressing against the window
as if trying to get in.
Tomato soup looked too much
like blood poured out
of that suffering
pictured in the vivid imagery
hung along the stations
of a child's mind no matter
if blest by grace.
When older and wiser,
I had lamb shank soup,
clumped with celery, carrots
and loads of gelatinous meat.
Each heaped spoonful
was a precious gift,
a celebration of life.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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