The Lotus Flower at the Pantry Door
The flower in the whisky bottle
beckons me,
kindly as a guru, a Buddha,
a pink fleshed lover.
I open the door behind the whisky bottle
and go into the pantry
where the holy ones
stay, the sustainers of me,
the lovers of me.
Holy is the bread in the box,
the chickpeas on the shelf;
holy is the tomato paste at the front,
that smiles at me,
waiting for its time of sacrificial service,
its Christlike surrender
to Bolognese or lasagna,
and the pasta
that will accompany it on the journey.
Holy are the walls that defend the food
from the weather,
and holy is the weather that nurtures
the food to grow
until harvested and packaged
for my convenience.
Holy are the hands that sow
and reap,
that pack the food
and transport it.
Holy are the trucks that carry it
and the shops that hold it for me
to obtain in that convenient
time of need.
Holy is the door that stayed open
for me
so I can leave and make falafels and salad
for dinner in the holy kitchen.
Holy is the table at which we sit and eat.
