The Flavors of the Broth

The Flavors of the Broth

In the soup, out of the soup, eating the soup,
warmly I came, I dreamed, I breathed the vapors, I
awakened in the dream, I conquered and
took a nap in the dream and
fell in the soup that
had turned cold enough to swim in.

In and out and in and out
the heart beats fast

Walking to the beat, there is music that
runs along with tickles and feathers and
I fly through the cloud with thunderous beats,
but the song of the rain makes me happy to land in a field
where dreams grow ingredients for soup.

The rain drives the worms to the surface for the bird to eat,
a mourning for the worm, a morning
for the nourished avian to sing,
share its dreams, give flying lessons, though
many do it with the mettle of metal glistening in the sun
an orchestra of pitter patter, chirps, and lub dubs, a
dubbing onto emergent things, the spirits
that travel in and out of dreams and fantasies like
a throb of a celestial trombone, sliding in and out
landslides without snow, flying without feathers or metal
shiny without light, beingness behind symbol, light of love,
invisible but soaring in the light of meandering love
listening to the grand and gentle splash, ha the cushioned percussion

Clouds are cymbals, puffy beats, and do
play with the food for thought. Could
clouds be as tasty as marshmallows? I’d say
only if serve with celestial soup —

the four course dinner: to dream, to fly, to love, to be
or not to be alone
in the breath of life there are many, there are one
fragrance wafts along the way waiting for an inhale, a
hail for a sigh

rest ye breaths for the butterfly. The flutter is a flit, a flirt of heaven;
kiss me.