My day is sourmilk,
and inky clouds of drizzling misery;
it’s death and greed of sooted news;
a cup of tea and orange juice;
cottage cheese and rhubarb jam;
redolent of summer breeze
with sweetness of a ticklish sun.
In shadowplay of singing woods
I close my eyes and flo-o-o-at
to laziness beside the mountain creek
as cloud plays peek-a-boo
with warmth on the electric blue
through muslin curtain’s whitish mesh
I’m dancing barefoot on the mossy softness
adorned with dewy rhinestones
on grey-green hues of rhubarb jam.
I turn to ashen paper news again
but having found the strength to face
November teeth of carnivores.
My day is sourmilk and rhubarb jam.
Today Abhra want us to write about our local food and what it means to us at dVerse poetics. We have preserved a little summer as rhubarb jam, that can bring small flashbacks to summer for us. There are more food here as well but this is what came to mind first.