No Need to Be Strong

God’s Broth is a life poem, reflecting on the question: who’s really in charge here? The seemingly random sequence of events may or may not be pre-destined. The weight of my input? God only knows….

God’s Broth

Upon  the wood-fired stove,
 perched like a turtle in the sand
 hatches my cauldron /
 broth simmering 
 for now
 
Morcels of chewy meat
 crunchy vegetables and flavoursome herbs
 collide to carve a
 broth bursting
 at times
 
On any given day
 the gas mark decrees
 the tidal times of steam, bubbles, and
 burnt bottom
 at will
 
Who blends the broth's magic
 or poison,
 the sweetness, the sours,
 the heat
 every hour?
 
May I be my own witch
 cook my own broth
 add a dash of nutmeg and chilli,
 pepper my soup with sugar
 anytime I'm peckish?
 
Too many cooks don't spoil the broth
 when prepping a mean feast
 of juice and zest 
 essential and 
 lasting

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