a white bowl of soup

as i blow

on the hot steam

of soup,

not unlike

the one my

mother would make

in the early

morning hours on a winter

day

of no school.

i smell

the meat of those mornings,

the potatoes

and celery,

the carrots. i seen her

hands

in the flour,

the salt and pepper.

i see her deep in thought

as come

into the kitchen to say

good morning.