kitchen zen

The pumpkin sputters, hissing onto my hand. I suck at the burn and then stir in the lime juice, adjust the rice.

Brighid’s kitchen candle burns, merry and cherry-red in its square of glass.

I usually sing scales as I cook, followed by arias. The cat uncurls a white paw on the red couch cover. The curry wreathes the white-walled kitchen in warm scent.


About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s