Soup

In those early days, pre-nascent womb of history
When humankind roamed hills and plains
Caught animals running free
And roasted their flesh

In cold of night and chill of dawn
Crouching naked in rock-strewn caves
Warming bodies over wisp and straggle of fire

Might it not have been as if preordained
That roots, herbs, skin and bones mixed with water
Saved from that last hunted meal
Were flung into the cauldron of stone

There to simmer into fullness of steam
And the fragrance of vapors blended and rising

Making young and old lick their lips
And grunt their longing
For the warm liquid comfort to course over the tongue
And down throat
Into rounded bliss of full stomach

Soup must have been the earth-mother of them all.

- Eleanor Kellner

Copyright 1999 Eleanor Kellner

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