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,
I was happy remembering.
She made some soup,
that was all.