Most days around five
you will find me in my kitchen
making my favorite kind of prayer.
All higher beings crowd around
my stovetop for a lick.
Silvery spooned reflections glimpse a flick
of angel wings - Just stopping by!
What is that heavenly smell, they coo.
Freed from the grind of restaurant kitchens
I take my time and work slowly,
at a pace I would have fired someone for.
Though I still keep my knives sharp and clean,
the minimum of respect my collaborators deserve,
bored as they must be by the one onion, two carrots, three garlic cloves
they get to play with these days.
Freedom and time to feed my family
is the source of my sustenance.
I need no thanks, no praise,
instead I bow to the flaming skillet,
offer rose petals to the charring cauliflower,
sprinkle holy water over lemon zest,
sing hymns to sweet potatoes
and cry over the onions.
The days when I cook in clay dug from the earth
and serve with a large wooden spoon
I step ever closer to you,
Holy Source
to that point where we merge into one
and I serve my big, love filled heart
alongside bread
and water.