A Season Not a Pot
“My difficulty is that I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.” – Virginia Woolf, letter to Ethel Smyth, 1930
I yellowed my bones.
Flash! Saffron drip. The water hisses past the lip.
This poem is not an apology.
I’m not sorry I miss myself.
Life has been less hungry lately.
I make less rice in the pot.
Who knows if there’ll be need for leftovers?
The street basil is moaning, and I pick the last of it for seasoning.
I take only what I need.
Even herbs have seasons of take, but that is past now.
Winter is birthing. I hope it screams on arrival.
The cold is empty. I want warning. I want basil in my basmati.
Did I take too much? Did I make too much?
Who will be here to eat this tomorrow?
I followed this poem as a prompt because I had no idea what to write about today. 🙂 How has your writing or reading gone this month so far?