You revolve in the kitchen
between the stove and the sink
like the sun in an arc
and I am like plant life --
first petals, then flower,
then stem all turn
to follow you

I watch you fold in
the leeks as they soften;
they too bend to you
as things heat up at your hands

What will I eat on cloudy days?
I would never think to cook
each part of a beet; to taste
its earthy, blood-red body, to feed
on the chaos of its leaves

But why think of that now
while visibility is optimal
and the window lets in the first
of Spring when the peaks of jaded,
frozen mountains thaw