Mother made Minestrone.
She plucked the finest greens from the herb garden,
she then poured them into boiling water,
like autumn leaves pulled down by gravity.
Mother chopped vegetables.
Rolled out some conchiglioni.
The bean broth was gently stirred with a wooden spoon.
This lush aroma
(full of yearnings)
perfumed the whitest vapour coming out of the copper pot.
It is a soup of memories,
she said.
I was happy remembering.
She made some soup,
that was all.
Comments
skinner_jennifer | November 17, 2011 - 11:26
Hi Daniel Saint-John,
now I really adored this poem, it had such a warmth
to it and I could smell the aroma of the Minestrone
soup, just by the way you explained it.
Nice one and thankyou for sharing.
Jenny.
Daniel Saint-John | November 17, 2011 - 17:35
Well thank you very much, must be my italian bloodline speaking sensously about food!
Excelsior!
scratch | November 18, 2011 - 23:58
It's a good poem Daniel;
Scratch.
Leander42 | November 19, 2011 - 00:03
As someone who potters in the kitchen, and as someone who still makes roast potatoes exactly as his mother made them, and who still lets his daughter shell the peas and lick the spoon from a cake mix (just as my mother let me), this poem rocks.
Daniel Saint-John | November 24, 2011 - 06:34
Hey, Leander, you know the feeling.
Thanx to you too, Scratch.
Excelsior!