Lunch

Lunch

 

Contemplation of a spinach salad,

an ancient lineage stored in dark greens,

anointed with oil,

Mediterranean Olives,

groves on stone terraces,

shallow roots in rocky soil,

the good pressed out of the bitter.

Toss in the Greek Feta,

milk of goat or sheep,

the clank of hooves

along the narrow trail of Perseus,

In his bloody sack, the head of Medusa.

On the road to redemption,

he earned his deliverance.

Mix in almonds,

the seed of a tree native to Persia,

emeralds, sapphires, rubies,

the diamond words of Hafiz,

thirteenth century dervishes

that dance their way to the divine.

And passed down from the cheat of a white man’s hand

Cranberries which once grew wild

from indigenous ground.

Mix the ingredients together

with the seeds of sunflowers,

from fields of light that grow almost everywhere.

This is my lunch, now part of me.

All at midday in October when there is plague

that has come to be known as Covid,

a crazy man election, that stills haunts the landscape,

and me who eats light

given freely from the face of blooms

that reach sunward.

 

What are you looking for?