Sun-Ripened Soup

by Mary Brunini McArdle

My thoughts are like a soup spoon,
Sending signals to my hand.
I want to touch, but cannot.

There is a vacant lot
I drive by every day.
The rounded mass of helianthus,
Boltonia and blue phlox,
Peppered with purple aster
And flanked by goldenrod,
Looks like a bowl of variegated soup.

Let me be two years old again,
Without manners or inhibitions,
Lifting the bowl to my lips –
No, do not stop me –
Allow me in my innocence
To bury my face
In that sun-drenched flavor,
And laughing, smear its essence
In my hair.