Cutting Vegetables 

Early in the morning,
and the room is still dark
as you sit quietly at the table
cutting vegetables.

Your hands are wrinkled,
but still strong, and
as if they have a mind of their own,
they cut each carrot, each leek,

with a precision that would surprise
those who know you,
perfect cuts, each the same
as the one before

even though your eyes look
beyond the window, seeing
not the work at hand,
but something lost in the morning light,

dreams of the night,
ephemeral and soft,
a tender lust of memory,
come, gone and come again.

You hands make short work,
and like magic, it is done.
Her hand touches your shoulder.
You smell the rich black coffee.

You never heard her enter the house,
never heard her as she brewed the coffee
in the kitchen, just doors down
from this table.

But with that one touch,
you are alive again,
dreams and reality merge,
and you are whole.

About this poem

It is a love poem. Love defies explanation really. But there you go.

The picture is of The Wilson House, a 1700’s house in nearby Hebron, NY, where the woman I love and I took a “Colonial Cooking” class a couple of years back.

Tom