a bowl of soup

you sit at
the table with
your hot bowl
of soup. spoon
in hand. you've
opened the window,
but it's not quite
spring, not yet,
and a chilled
breeze fills
the air. and
the heat from
the soup rises
into your face,
and you remember
soup like this,
when you were young,
the smell of celery
and onion fills
the room, and
you remember
when you only
had soup to eat.
a stack of white
bread, thinly slicd
with butter in front
of you on a small
plate. things have
changed, things
haven't changed.