Squished banana adornes the counter,
turning formica to quartz,
sparkling, innocence like the eyes of infants.
A vase is filled,
broccoli blooms buttery
and the cilantro bolts to corriander,
tiny white flowers like lace.
Stalks of swiss chard, their deep red veins
and ruffling green leaves stand supportive
at the bouquet’s back
and the mint waits to be noticed.
Headed for laundry, I pass through the kitchen,
wipe up the abandoned fruit
and wonder about the remaining scent unseen.
When my babies are grown, explorers in the wild world,
how will I see love?
the cut herbs and harvested vegetables
like an aura in the full kitchen.
When the empty bedrooms gape,
radical gratitude must be my first nature.
Then the absence will be as abundance,
the overflow of my blessing cup.