Stew

Two fingers of bourbon glisten amber,
slippery over the ice cubes, forgotten
in the reverie of the night,

in the memory of old love letters,
of traveling to far away places
both geographical and spiritual,

of the mysteries of love and hate
and fear and the mad stew
of all three bubbling in the same cauldron.

It has not been simple, your life.
None are.
And each ingredient, each strange turn

adds to the mystery, adds to the wonderment
that with so many people in your life,
and so many years behind you,

things work as well as they do.

About this poem.

Yes, I use the crock pot way too much in the cold season here in Vermont, But that is not where this poem came from. It came the first two lines, which keep popping in and out of my head, and finally, I had to do SOMETHING with them.

Tom

PS – It’s rare, but the picture is not mine. It’s part of a public domain set of pictures I own. I didn’t have a good shot to use, and didn’t feel like burning a glass of my precious bourbon this morning to take one.