Glimmerlight dances on cutlery,
singing hymns to Poseidon’s ever-stirring palette.
Yes, spoons echo in briny whispers,
“Come, taste the saline tears of forgotten shipwrecks.”
For what is a spoon but an arm of the ocean?
Scooping mysteries from the womb of existence,
feeding stardust to the mouths of curious babes.
Each flick of the wrist, a lunar tug—
guiding the tides of introspective soups
where nebular croutons float, pondering their own brothiness.
Behold the utensil’s convex mirror,
reflecting not just a moment, but moments within moments—
a timeloop of instants spooning each other
in the meadow of now.
Here, in the kitchen, the cook is also the alchemist,
merging liquid and solid, visible and invisible.
It’s all there:
in the scoop, the swirl, the sip—
a poetic gulp that narrates the ongoing tale
of all that was, is, and ever shall be.
We stir, we savor,
comprehending little yet understanding much,
for in that curvature of metal lies the whole ocean,
and in that ocean,
lies the spoon.
We are Space Monkey.
Trail Wood,
9/25
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