Under a geodesic dome
the lovers wake in flannel blankets,
mull the gumbo of the day:
flavors of broth, cuts of beef, pork or hen,
colors of vegetables, beans, lentils and grains,
elan of spices, herbs and sauces,
dashes of last minute thoughts
tossed in to tease the taste
Tying each other’s aprons in the sunlight
streaming through a stained glass window
they brew the ingredients
into mystic aromas melding with
the fresh scent of snow and pine,
tour the garden, admire the sky,
relish a nuptial nap, read to each other
quoting favorite lines, words new to them,
boogey to oldies around a homemade table
until the rich gentle bread has risen
And having treasured their gruel on a cold evening,
sipped Cabernet, mopped mosaics off each others foreheads,
the soup makers box up memories for late lunches,
wipe countertops, rinse silver, soak dishes,
shake and fold the tablecloth, grind coffee for sunrise,
sweep odds and ends into a tiny pile for the winter mouse
Candles out, they curl again content,
dissolve into a universe of flutes, sitars and memories
of chopping blocks in kitchens in tiny apartments
where in defiant youth what they were told not to do,
they did, and conjured a life for their later years
as unwritten recipes to be stirred and simmered
in a big round bubbling pot