The Marrow of Mortal Meals

Hunger:
Not the kind that compels one to direct action like the acoustics of an empty room,
but the type indulged as a mild spice.

Stewpot:
Not the kind that reflects an image on it’s shimmering surface,
but the type that is dark and deeply dented from years of service.

Water:
Not the kind that cascades from the pure filter that is a spring,
but the type that trickles out whistling from the tarnished tap.

Oatmeal:
Not the kind that is grown and cut by the pious Quaker,
but the type that is mined from a scuffed ten gallon bucket.

Fruit:
Not the kind that grew freely and without toil in the antiquated shadows of Eden,
but the type that ushers down the corridor both joy and sorrow in it’s cultivation.

Froth:
Not the bubbles showcased vividly in fairytales, enshrined in technicolored glory,
but the boiling froth familial to the art and the chore of cooking.

Victuals:
Not the kind that is sculpted to culinary perfection and garnished with grace,
but the type that is coarse and homely.


Sated:
Not the kind that is like water passing through a colander,
but the kind that is the vigor of a forest after fire.

Life:
Not the kind that is pampered and angelic,
but the kind that is solid as a stone and hardy as the Sun.

Image Courtesy of  https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/en/view-image.php?image=69203&picture=oats-field