Why I Write
There is a certain
Satisfaction
That comes with cooking a good meal.
It’s the love stirred in
The effort of smelling, tasting, listening, editing
Until it seems just right
And the hungry ones take it in
And where there was once noise
There is the quiet
Of grateful and appreciative chewing.
And I think,
This is what I made, this piece
Of me I served out.
They like it,
And they are
Eating it up.
Soapbox: The Way I see Things 