Stone Soup

(Sopa de Pedra)

It was always Stone Soup, never mine, never yours, only the strange and tender nourishment of what seemed separate being poured into the same pot, until the giver, the gift, the taste, and the one being fed could no longer be found apart from the soup itself.

🛘

All I had was a stone,

not even a stove,

or a hook to hang my hat on,

just a feeling alone,

a pot and a stone.

🛘

The river brought water to me.

It did not charge. It was free.

A good deal, if you ask me.

🛘

Boiling this river stone

in the water that had

carried it all along,

I sat by the fire,

burned in the whole desire

to be.

🛘

But I guess the fire

was taken as a signal to you,

as you offered to drop in

something I knew

but had forgotten,

a flavor of meals past,

a moment that did not last,

but alas, it came back.

🛘

Aroma and spices lifted

in autumn air,

and our mood shifted.

We were there,

feeling the promise

of the brew

and the flavor of something new.

🛘

Why did it feel so known?

As if I had been here

before I was gone,

before we thought to pull

the Soup from the Stone.

🛘

More who are called “we”

joined in this soupy revelry

and brought themselves

to This,

a boiling soup in the mist.

🛘

A stone soup to share

with all who were there,

which is here and now,

as we cook somehow.

🛘

The fire of our soul,

the flavor bold,

the seasoned past,

Allways here.

🛘

Who brings the bowls?