Chicken Soup

There’s something about the taste of simple foodA pinch of salt over grilled meatA sip of chicken soupThat whispers "home," and "longing," and "forgiveness,"And "I’ll never leave you"sThe sense of eternities spent apartOn a cloud-bed mattressWhen all you could ever hope forWas just across the little creekTrailing down the grassy knollThrough the evergreen forestThrough the windswept townTo the door where she waitsSmiling, with a bowl of chicken soup

“I’m home.”

Author's Note:

I'm sure most people have fond memories of nights spent with family around tables laden with homecooked food. Homecooked food may not be the most delicious cuisine, especially compared to those higher-end restaurants down the street reserved for special events like birthdays and Christmas, but there's something special about the taste of simple dishes—a nostalgic flavour that even the greatest chefs of the world are unable to recreate at will. It was on a simple night, sitting alone in a cheap diner that I pondered this phenomenon and conceived this poem.