I stand at the kitchen counter,
knife poised silver over the bamboo board
scarred from years of culinary cuts.
In this most recent present I chop
carrots, potatoes, parsnips, turnips,
and a light green succulent cellulose
called celery.
Half inch pieces,
slice after slice,
each length a lesson
on lasting in attention.
Time waits patiently in my shoes,
my education yawns,
the news pauses anxiously wanting to move on,
my past, my future linger, and also my future’s past
which is this very moment when it’s gone.
The world lapses
behind the work
of repeated severing.
Mesmerized by the cadence of my blade,
I remember I am part of where these
tubers, stems, bulbs, and garlic cloves began.
I am not only here but there,
at the garden as well as the chopping block.
Slicing an onion
brings a sting of tears.
Dabbing blurred vision,
I lose concentration
and grieve earth’s concentric spheres
of sedimental sadness.
Lost in vegetal reverie,
I cry the layered sorrow
of the human earth.
2014