She has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss the vichyssoise of this potpourri season.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
are so easy to miss.
My friend will soon return with a carton of broth,
plus, a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of a fresh plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock,
the ‘mise en place’.
Today I will cook only with missing ingredients.
Everything is in order,
all is a hunger surrounded
by the soft anticipation of open lips.
I do miss the mélange and medley,
the consommé of fat times.
I will miss cracking chicken bones,
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend returns from the store.
She miles at the look
of childish relief on my face.
If I am left alone too long, I tend to make lists,
I become a Saran wrapped emptiness -
I disappear for a while.
While thunder rolls over the scene:
lightning bolts, ignite tinder trees.
Plummeting drops douse the ground fires:
but, torched by cinders, the trees' crown.
Suety smoke inks ebon clouds;
while thunder rolls over the scene.
Terrified of loud thunderstorms,
critters flee the stench of burnt wood.
Strong gusts morph into swirling winds
lofting plumes of hot embers high.
While thunder rolls over the scene,
molten lightning lights up the sky.
Dwindling fuel feeds fire's demise;
when the wind shifts upon itself.
Forest fires die out over time,
while thunder rolls over the scene.
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