This is when
enormous red warmths
reply to November wind.
When our pots’ steely mouths
talk across continents, singing
about earthy, vivacious sweetness.
Borscht is its own category – not soup.
Like an element: can’t replace water
with air, earth with fire. Can’t be in somebody
else’s element. This one: ours.
Borscht’s knightly, red and gold satin
requests the unhurried jewels of crushed garlic.
We feed our loves and take joy
in the bulging, intricate matters
that grew underfoot.
As we float the last green herbs
at the top, we greet spring,
which is hiding now, and will come.
