Bai gkaprow.
Its Thai name is difficult to pronounce,
the way something sacred should be.
Like most herbs,
we’re told,
it grows better in poor soil;
blessed are the poor.
I sprinkle some,
like holy-water,
on a strawberry-rhubarb pie
a saintly neighbor has left for me
and place it in the oven,
.
Instantly inebriated
with the abrupt
fragrance of divinity,
thick with incense and heat,
my kitchen has
become a cathedral,
an ashram.
After dinner,
I walk around satiated, elevated,
knowing something
holy is inside me.
Isn't synchronicity an amazing thing? I recently had my first piece of strawberry rhubbarb pie a friend had brought me-yes, indeed: Holy Pie! Holy Pesto! Holy Kitchen! I absolutely love the concept of this poem- Wonderful! Thanks, Bill. Sandra, laughing with her mouth full
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thanks, Sandra. I'm envious, though, because it's been many years since I've had strawberry-rhubarb pie. You recently enjoyed a real one-better than any versified one any time! I appreciate your comments and am glad you enjoyed the poem.