This poem, which came to me from the site First Sip, describes my winter, a season that I am now calling the Winter of Soups. Yesterday I made a chili verde. There are black beans in the refrigerator. I just saw a recipe for mushroom barley soup which I will certainly try as soon as I figure out where I can get good barley. The making of a minestrone last week pretty much saved my life.
The photograph of the emerging geranium was taken in my front yard. It is growing from a cutting from the geranium in my backyard, which is a cutting from a geranium from a neighbor who lived across the street for many years before she passed from cancer. My geranium is easily 30 years old. Even as new people move in, this is a neighborhood of old trees and flowers. I love that.
So armed with a flag of red geraniums, a bowl of soup, and a poem fueled soul, I wii I take my stand against the terrible politicians practicing their terrible politics. I am confident angels will always be present. I dedicate this post to my friend Rev. Patricia Wood whose body succumbed to cancer yesterday. She was a fine chaplain and a fine gardener who loved her family, human and otherwise. She loved poetry. She probably knew this poem. She was always a step or two ahead of me, but shared her knowledge with love.
Still so much to be grateful for. Let us remember.
Poem with an Embedded Line by Susan Cohen
Barbara Crooker
When the evening newscast leads to despair,
when my Facebook feed raises my blood pressure,
when I can’t listen to NPR anymore,
I turn to the sky, blooming like chicory,
its dearth of clouds, its vast blue endlessness.
The trees are turning copper, gold, bronze,
fired by the October sun, and the bees
are going for broke, drunk on fermenting
apples. I turn to my skillet, cast iron
you can count on, glug some olive oil,
sizzle some onions, adding garlic at the end
to prevent bitterness. My husband,
that sweet man, enters the room, asks
what’s for dinner, says it smells good.
He could live on garlic and onions
slowly turning to gold. The water
is boiling, so I throw in some peppers,
halved, cored, and seeded, let them bob
in the salty water until they’re soft.
To the soffrito, I add ground beef, chili
powder, cumin, dried oregano, tomato sauce,
mashed cannellinis; simmer for a while.
Then I stir in more white beans, stuff the hearts
of the peppers, drape them with cheese and tuck
the pan in the oven’s mouth. Let the terrible
politicians practice / their terrible politics.
At my kitchen table, all will be fed. I turn
the radio to a classical station, maybe Vivaldi.
All we have are these moments: the golden trees,
the industrious bees, the falling light. Darkness
will not overtake us.
