Food on a Plate
You are not just food on a plate
solely here for the consumption of everyone - but yourself,
served in one endless line of blurry days
marked only by a shift in cooking methods, seasonings, and garnishes.
I hear the wanton cries:
We’re out of milk!
What’s for dinner?
I see you standing there in utter depletion.
Your once fertile fields now grossly unkempt, parched, overtaken by the deep soul suckage of obligation.
So very thirsty for a long, cool drink of yourself.
Look here and hear the truth.
Your meticulously planted seeds of creation are not dead, but dormant.
You feel the first soft flutters of awakening deep in your womb.
You smell the coming rain.
Place your hand there, over the secret place, and invite gestation.
Pick up the remains of your tortured hopes and dust off your spade and hoe.
Order the pizza.
It’s time to get dirty.