What is it to stew, I ask myself,
to bubble and brew, to simmer,
to sit in heat, yes, but what kind?
On one hand, a pot on the stove,
a warm, hearty endeavor,
where carrots, potatoes, maybe a bit of beef
join forces in a slow dance of flavor,
each piece softening, giving itself up
to the warm embrace of broth,
the way things blend when given time.
But then, there’s the other—
that brooding, murky mind stew,
a darker affair.
The silent churn of an unsettled heart,
the endless reheating of small grievances,
a smoldering over slights and worries,
turning them over, poking at embers,
not wanting to let them cool.
One stew asks for a ladle, a spoon,
a dash of salt, a glug of wine—
says patience and taste,
take your time, let things meld.
The other—oh, it wants no seasoning,
it wants only to feed itself,
to stir up sour thoughts,
and let them stew in silence,
until the pot overflows with bitterness.
So here I am, at the edge of the kitchen,
where thoughts and tastes divide,
wondering if I should simmer in anger
or let things go soft and savory.
I turn to the pot, lift the lid,
inhale the blend of thyme, onion,
and something tender beneath.
Yes, I think,
I’d rather let life stew this way—
warm, fragrant,
a meal to be shared,
than let my thoughts stew alone,
without salt, without joy,
without a spoon.
Poetic Alchemist 