Soup Weather

The world outside is just a wash,

a gray-brown blur behind the pane.

The gutters gurgle, soft and harsh,

a rhythmic, steady, falling rain.

And in this hush, this damp retreat,

a thought unfurls, a low, slow hum.

The kitchen calls, a simple feat:

to make the soup I've just become

so hungry for. The bay leaf waits,

the carrots chopped, the onion sighs.

Steam rises, warm, beyond the gates

of some old memory, where it lies.

My ceramic bowl, a small, deep well,

holds something more than just warm food.

A quiet, cozy, private spell,

a silent, rain-soaked interlude.