Lentil Warmth

The first cold snap, it bit hard,

creeping in beneath the door.

A chill that sank to the bone,

asking for something more.

No sweater helped, no heavy sock,

just a quiet, persistent shock.

So I chopped the carrots, slow and small,

onions sharp, a silent call.

The knife's rhythm, a steady beat,

a kind of comfort, bittersweet.

The pot grew warm, a rising steam,

a mother's ghost, a waking dream.

Lentils dark, with thyme and spice,

a bubbling hum, a simple device

against the ache, the fading light.

The kitchen window, fogged and white.

A plop, a sigh, a simmer deep,

some old grief, the promise to keep.