Cooking alone on a hotplate,
sound of a Spanish guitar plucking notes
from some other time and place
in Mediterranea, over songs of gentle want
she boils cures for broken hearts
from Dandelion, Laurel and Nettle,
one with a sting and once with spice,
and another sweet to cure-all.
This is Spring and much is scarce but weeds,
though she knows their names and secret uses
with a smile, the way the leaves and flowers
soak slowly until steam rises
reminds her what determination
with a spritz of fragrance is required
to taste the feast beyond famine.
Hot jewels of blooming stars, fair Orion
and the Dippers lend their love overhead
while she brews Springtime satisfaction.
Summer’s almost here.