The Chopping Board is a slice of morning poetry and a reflection on and celebration of the inevitability of passing time and unfolding stories for and in between people, places, and planet earth.
The Chopping Board – Morning Poetry
Every morning, I am the orange next in line for the juicer, dawn peels, and my pen knife's no match for the shark's teeth. Rise above, the sparrow says eagle-eyed. Nest at the bottom of the ocean, the goldfish blows like a fox. Mutate, the bug says, and it is true, she's baffled every pesticide. As I begin and cloud the morning star, I hear the ocean's churning and the salt's surrender, the sun's not for dimming, and the dawn chorus of finches and swallows prints flowers on my forehead through the window. Down on the tar-clad road, traffic and neon lights, breathing bodies wearing lives and longing, and I go on and chop strawberries, apples, oranges, kiwis, grapes, bananas, raspberries, mangos, soon to be gliding off the wooden block into the chipped bowl on the kitchen counter. Like a meteor shower, the sugar sprinkles slowly fall and syllables syphon hyphens. The juice is good now.0