Maa tells me to make more soup than required,
Imagine one-sixth of the cup and add extra,
Not for the risk factor of running out,
But you will taste the soup a thousand times,
Before you pour yourself a cup.
It is a cold morning, the kind that makes sure you see it,
The kind you notice,
And you look for a sweater in the middle of the afternoon,
And in those winters,
You make yourself soup.
Add some tomatoes that you smash in your hands,
Chop some beans and let them roll into the pan,
Cut some coriander in little bits,
Enough for you to know they don't coalesce.
Let the heat bring up bubbles and watch it blend with the water you've poured,
Maybe you look at that pot of soup and find something,
Something you seeked in that translucency,
Let it waft in the air,
And watch it embibe within you.
There is a love that exists,
That looks for you every afternoon,
The kind you give your sweater to,
The kind that you give that extra soup to.
I added some salt to it,
The tomato rose up and showed its wrung-ness,
I pull it out of the pan,
Make it rest on the spoon,
You liked that extra tomato,
You loved that there was some more left in the pan.
Today arrives in little pockets of light,
Places itself near my door,
Yesterday lifts up and joins the clouds,
Tomorrow is blurry and I see it peaking around the corner,
And today is a box of sunshine that sits on the floor.
Wind brings the coldness,
And I make the extra soup.
I taste it so many times to make it perfect,
That it never made the cup.
About the poet:
My name means a flightless bird of the Ostrich family, which explains my tendency to run away from problems but can't fly away. I couldn't let go of science and literature, so decided to get a degree in Science Journalism. You can find me on Instagram @the_metaphoric_physicist