Soup Cook

NOT SPEAKING OF SOUP

Christmas morning, and I’m making soup

From stock, turkey stock cooked down

From last night’s feast.

Making soup’s a savory slope.

Slowly gathering momentum

Toward delicately balanced perfection

As one adds a bit of this

And a pinch of what matters

Until, alas, steaming hot

Tastes and smells comingle in a fleeting paradise.

That, I’ll just say it, orgasmic collision

Of momentary A-Hah! contentment

Don’t talk.

Don’t speak to me of this or that soup.

Nor of magic ingredients.

Not now. Maybe later, once written

Analyzed, compared to other recipes

But now?  Hush.

Experience eclipses words.

Shhhhh…

Are we speaking of soup

Or magic in general?