a late winter soup

design poetry PostADay

a late winter soup

design poetry PostADay

Three too many cloves of garlic. That’s what it takes to get the apartment to smell of soup. I let it simmer over the lowest heat as I come and go randomly adding a vegetable here, some chicken there.

It thickens over time, as the broth becomes.

And I wash the rice, before I toast it in a bit of oil, then prepare it separately, until I can tumble it, snow-like, into the pot.

The air has become golden with garlic, shallots, and pepper. The mushrooms lightly melt as they swirl around the pot. The enamelled iron both radiates and contains.

I am warmed from within.

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