when your thoughts get rounded off,
gathering down the slope to the open plateau,
relegated to a collection.
Each one appears then fades
-as sounds of thunder dwindles to nothing-
leaving barely enough to fill a bowl.
Maybe the scratched
glass bowl the color of cinnamon,
that you use to mix tuna and mayonnaise
-but without sweet pickles
it is not a salad-
or the majestic porcelain one –
the best bowl to mix flour, water, and yeast.
Cover with a cloth
and let the dough rise -twice its size –
on the stove counter,
or the one
– it holds the apples and oranges,
and keeps from bruising them, but doesn’t work
for tangerines – so you store them
in the original packaging.
Then the bowls you don’t use –
you flip them over in the cabinet-
that way they don’t get dusty inside,
and you can put the spare words
away in a basket
for the day
or in a drawer
with recipe cards,
paper clips, spare buttons
and old keys.
Reblogged this on LAMBORGHINI.
love the poem:)
and not just because i love bowls. this was good to read over and over.
Thanks Sherry. 🙂