Tonight I give thanks for
the crook-necked squash, the sliced
sleeve of the string bean, the gauntlet
of new-old recipes.
I give thanks for the fire
of my mother's cast-iron stove,
tactile ways in the dicings of parsnip
and chive, the plumping of butter bean and corn,
succulent white in textures of dumplings....
I give thanks for layered garlic
and onion scents left on my hands,
bisques smooth as peeled pears, vapors
and broths that tempt taste,
waft down space and time to the heart's
hinged spoon, to make a consommé
of deepest winter.