dancing
in a yoga meditation
and craved the voluptuous
sharing
of good food.
Now I look and cook just like him:
my brain light;
tossing this and that
into the pot;
seasoning none of my life
the same way twice; happy to feed
whoever strays my way.
He would have grown
to admire
the women I've become:
cooking, writing, chopping wood,
Her father might have taken time to accept or understand his daughter, but would have done so in his own time.
Poem at Thirty-Nine