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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Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting to my posts.  It is very appreciated.

I am currently raising money to pay for ongoing psychotherapy. I am a survivor of complex trauma, I have dissociative identity disorder, and complex PTSD.  Therapy can be very expensive.

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