Shining on my stove
bodhisattva quiet,
it wants no answers.
Not why tomorrow
begets today, and both
eclipse yesterday,
nor why time is lightning,
love a changeling,
and poetry a singing thing.
As my kitchen oracle
delphic-wise, it implies:
“One thing at a time.”
“Let the riddles go.”
“Keep on keeping on.”
I listen with open ears
to its stove-top wisdom,
never averse to telling me,
housebound crone that I am,
my arms about a century
closing its thousand-year fan,
that it is my beacon, the sun
in my kitchen that glows
to warm a human heart
with its tranquility.
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