O’ these remarkable hands
strong arms that embrace
the day has now marched forth
the belly grumbles its demands 
of soup.

I weave the ingredients 
chopped carrots, celery and onion
sized just right
not too big and chunky
but a delightful bite
spoonful upon spoonful.

Of Soup, Weaver and Stone
The hearth I place upon the kettle,
the pot and ladle.  
You turn on with little effort
a forceful gas
a pop ignites a flame.

I marvel the alchemy 
of what was many parts 
too big to consume
marinates and softens.

The scent permeates to each room’s walls
a heartiness
a potential promise 
of a full belly 
with gobs of soft fresh bread
baked by unknown hands
now in mine I consume.