Making soup is alchemy—

a brew made from the elements

where fire, earth, air and water

mingle to concoct a potion

that if seasoned well

can hypnotize the senses

with its taste and nourishment.

The mysteries of soup cannot be taught

by passing down a recipe of measurements.

It’s more than slicing onions to be sizzled

with cut carrots, celery, green peppers

then sautéed until their essence bleeds

and shines translucent from the heat.

It’s more than elements simmering

in the stock or water stirred

with a wooden spoon—

much more than seasoning

that anyone can take and shake

into a pot like words that make

up sentences but lacks the poetry

that words can send into the ear

and through the nerves of those

who can hear the magic sound.

You cannot teach the imagination

how a pinch of this, a pinch of that

tasted with a searching tongue

in the darkness of closed eyes

can reach beyond aromas rising

in the air and know it’s getting near

where smell and taste and breathing

meet to capture in the mouth

what passion knows.

There is no language for the taste of soup

reaching deep inside where words can’t reach

to soothe, caress, and rip away indifference.

Making soup is art—

like mixing colors on the palate

that bring red flowers to the canvas,

and huge green mountains in the distance

blending into the bright blue skies

where white clouds look so soft

you want to join them in their journey

over forests and deep seas.

Who knows why this brew

made from leaves and roots

and bones,

ladled into bowls

and lifted with a spoon into the mouth

to touch the tongues of hungry souls

can nourish and delight

and bring back memories

from a time long ago

where soup was sipped

in circles around a fire--

smoke rising like a spirit

high into the darkness,

lips smiling at the taste

and at each other.