boy taking soup©papa osmubal

boy taking soup©papa osmubal

barbara rendall

The same thick, humid soup spooned up
From the bottomless pot of paradise, day after day,
Still leaves me hungry,
Longing for contrast and change,

For that nourishing spread of seasons
Laid on by the temperate zones,
A menu that rotates:
Huge feasts of late light in July,

And deep five-o’clock dark in December,
Fields heat-soaked in August,
Then frozen to bleakness in winter;
And those charmed reversals–

Warm, running thaws in mid-March
Just as I’d given up hope;
Nights suddenly cooling in fall, like a switch turning off;
The keen edge of it whetting the appetite over again
Just as the plate grows dull,

Making me greedy each day for the next,
For whatever might come on the turn of the wind.


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