Listen to a reading of this poem here
Sorrel Soup
Snip two handsful
of spring-burst acid leaves,
sorrow-weary hearts
green as mossy headstones.
Slice them thin as
battered hope.
Confetti these ribbons
in simmering water
not so salty as tears,
where earthy vegetables –
softened to the tooth –
and herbs at hand
await the sudden flush
of green.
Salt and pepper to taste.
Savor, not heat,
warms the snow-
stiff body here:
sour-apple acid at
winter’s wake
brimming hungry
flesh with unlooked-for
stillness, as in
great loss
recalled from safety.
Sourness, so tendered
in early spring,
awakens dreams,
we’re told,
to warm sap-
raising nights
with harvest scents,
while seeds sleep on,
blind worms till
the darkness,
and autumn-graved bulbs
silently unfurl.
