I am just a simple spoon made of driftwood; carved over the continents and emotional spills.
I am the size of a soup spoon but have yet to taste the fullness of soup’s awakening
I scoop up grains stirred with the intensity of savored secrets – yesterdays grits, cornmeal of the cradled fire, oats from the tired fields, buckwheat of pre-organic offerings.
I fill your mouth with warm promises, yet I care not about the heat or texture that I ladle.
My handle has been smoothed with the heaving sighs of feeding; feeding into fullness, into hunger, into questions, into the passing of still moments, fumbling towards our final drift.
Such a simple spoon – prized perhaps by mouth or heart’s reflection