Her only expression of care, even love, she missed giving.
As each person left, drifted to towns across time zones,
Her language fell out of reach.
She tried with words
Ordained by men
To keep them tethered.
But the cooking, the aromas,
The pallet teasers could not communicate
As they once did.
No longer could she
In her giving
The smiles and jokes,
Warmth extrapolated from full stomachs.
And so the epicenter of her joy,
The power of nurturing—
Anonymous and kind
Leaving her to cultivate alone,
Feeding only herself.
Here’s a quick 100 for you guys. I know it’s been a while (almost a month!) But I am hoping to get back to a normal-like schedule soon. This 100 is currently alternating between prose and poem, so consider it rough. But exercise often is, right?