While the onions and celery forget themselves
in the butter and low heat, I walk to the garden
and gather spinach. It’s nearly time to pull the row—
the plants have begun to yellow and bolt—
but there remain enough dark green leaves
for a pot of fresh cream of spinach soup.
The evening is warm, and swallows dart and swoop
through the air. A haze drapes the midsummer sky.
For a moment I forget there is dinner
to make, a burner inside that will not wait.
For a moment my heart is as open
as the first calendula bloom in the garden,
all its many petals peeled back. It’s now I notice
I’ve been living only half open. Sometimes
we unfold just long enough that the world
can rush in and shake us awake
before we bend back in to our daily lists.
The soup has never been so deep green,
so rich. The night has never smelled so good.