We Spoon Out Life

Small grains of memory gather
on the kitchen counter,
in the strum of your guitar,
in the taste of basil,
within the first arc of sun in the sky.

I remember morning light filtering through
butter yellow curtains in my bedroom.
I remember my great aunt’s baked ziti
and the special sauce
that touched the tongue with garlic.
I remember your guitar filling the air
with smoke signals of sound
on every porch, of every house we’ve called home.

On a side table rests a framed square of family.
Hands wave from the past,
the ink remains wet from letters read
and re-read.
An invisible bound book resides
within my lungs,
capturing on every page
the breath and meaning
of each grain of memory.
We add to the book,
with each birth,
honor the stream of story
running through our bones,
caverns of connection.

We Spoon Out Life

We spoon out life, filling expectant bowls,
savouring moments of delicate touch,
enraptured taste, and soul balancing sound.
Our days are delectable dishes,
served up with hands that wait for dough to rise,
that watch for the swell of years to fill
both minds and bellies.