The wind is howling outside Rattling the windows Of this old house Where I live Overturning empty chairs In the yard, The neighbor’s trash cans Roll back and forth in agony The cherry blossoms I planted in memory of my sister A blizzard of pink petals now, Torn and tossed Into Spring's Verdant oblivion. Inside, beyond the reach of wind Sheltered where fate and Its contagion Cannot find me, I notice how my steps Become small A bird walking across Wet grass I move quietly Gathering what I need Laying the tomatoes The garlic, the oil and spices On the counter gently As though one more noise One more thoughtless Indiscretion or Overwrought gesture Would give me away. I stand at the stove Stirring the sauce The small light In the range hood Shining only on What is needed My hand, the wooden spoon The pot, the clear lid, Drops of condensation Gathering inside it like watery stars Hung in the long-ago firmament. Slowly the fragrance begins To blossom Over the heat The rosemary, the oregano The garlic and thyme Climbing a ladder of steam Dividing and multiplying Into the world For their brief hour, Exploiting my vulnerabilities My perpetual lack of preparedness My urges and appetites Always undoing me, Slipping under the lid A phantom, a breath Infecting my senses With loss With memory With savory delight.
Charles Oberkehr 