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I begin with barley,

peel and chop the onion,

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toss in tomatoes, garlic -

turn it on to simmer,

and set out for a walk.

At first I think of work.

The pace, the rush,

and what comes next. But

when we turn toward home,

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the dog bounds up with a stick,

demands a toss and turns

my thoughts to soup.

How when I lift the lid

its breath will rise and

the pearly barley

will be plump and firm.

How oregano and maybe thyme

and hunks of bread and candlelight,

how grains, and herbs and animals

will blend and mend most days.

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