I have a friend who believes
I should make Laksa, with love,
And serve it in the wintertime
When the air bites our fingertips
Without the pretence of seduction.
It carves itself into our bones,
Trying to turn them into pipes
To play it’s music on;
Frost in A minor,
Prelude in Snowflakes,
The Ballad of the Robin.
There is affection in cooking well
For someone else,
In the measuring of so much care
Into the pot
Along with spices.
In the giving of time
To such a fleeting offering
That nonetheless sustains them.
All of love,
All of friendship,
All the parts of us that matter
Are just like that;
Full of kindness
Poured into the waiting bowl of someone’s heart,
To nourish their life.