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