It's in the middle of washing that hundredth dish,
fingers pulled tight and wrinkly,
water rushing warm and full
It is then that I catch the joy
It hangs in the air
moist and heavy
You're busy at the stove
swirling riotous color and pattern
upon your chosen canvas
while beads of sweat hug your brow
I watch you at a slant
wanting to catch you unfettered
to see you wholly absorbed
making a life rather than a living
These moments, ripe with rhythm
they hem us in, behind and before
silently threading a golden margin
along our frayed edges
At one point, between tasks
you slide up behind me
and suddenly arms and spoons and curry
they circle me
Your lips find my neck
and you whisper love down my back
You tell me how you are full to bursting
and my face rises in laughter
We are cooking more than dinner
you and I
It will be the stringing of days like this
one upon the other
that will make us round and full
and replete
For this meal
with its swirl of time and place
it warms ones belly
deep and wide
