Steam rises in curls,
a soft fog of earth and warmth—
carrots glow like embers,
potatoes sink like stones
in a shallow river of broth.
Each spoonful carries
a chorus of quiet gardens—
celery’s green whisper,
onion’s slow sweetness,
parsley like a hand on the shoulder.
The bowl hums against my palms,
a hearth I can drink,
and as I swallow,
the day thaws inside me—
even winter feels edible.

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