Baby says its too cold to eat soup on the porch or in the garden
Its so hot out here, and it’s Sunday! Where’s the mercy she craves?
What is a craving, a need for a bowl of soup?
Release the meat! The sausage is to be sliced and put in the oven!
Cooking is the creation of soup, or is soup the creation of cooking?
Or...both? A dependent relationship, like the Moon and the Sun.
She stumbled on a loose board.
Reaching for a spoon, it fell on the woman’s toe, bounced, just out of reach.
She looked across the house, and through the open window that had a great display of vast sky and tangible green grass frolicking in familiar motions.
Hair! A brush!
When was the last time she had bathed or rinsed?
2 months? No, 1. Feels like 4. Or 5.
He never loved her enough to stay.
He collected their pollinated, breathing seeds and with motion toward the road, left.
Then right.
Then left.
Then right.
Then...right, was it?
Or maybe left.
He definitely did that. She remembers every day since.
With the grass, to brown leaves, to frozen feet of soil, to wet puddles, and back.
And every year after that.