Saturday, December 18, 2010
Last night when the December moon was closer to the Earth than it had been in years, huge on the horizon, blazing hills and craters, I saw it too late, too high in the sky. Still, I could almost count the peaks that held the sun.
Tonight, after slicing red potatoes, yams, carrots, onions, and a garlic into a base of chicken broth; after shaking a delicate rain of basil and tarragon onto the surface and stirring those sweet spices in - while the soup simmered, I threw on a jacket over my nightclothes and ran out to look for the moon. My slippered feet were cold as I searched the sky, wanting to raise my face into white light.
But there was no moon, no glow over the apartment roofs to say it was rising, so I came back in and stirred my soup, raising the ladle to my lips to taste again and again the dark fruits of the Earth.
moon-seeking soup -
my own face reflected
in the broth.
Penny Harper "Moon Seeking Soup"
Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose - Issue 1. Summer 2009
Image of and via anabotezatu