Some days, food is only a word, A thing, to be had in between
Breaks from working round the clock.
It has a time, it is a fixture.
Some days you don't notice,
If your food is a solo item, or a mixture,
Of a vegetable, a bunch of leaves, some spices,
Roots, perhaps also a martyred creature, and a couple of seeds.
Some days you don't see,
When you spend your hundreds when hungry,
What exactly you put inside you. Do you taste the bread,
The sauces, the crisp nuggets, the stir-fried veges?
Some days when you wrinkle your nose,
Over the food prepared, and eat disgruntled,
Don't you feel the softness or the rawness,
The naturalness of food made with lesser condiments?
Do you feel the subtle flavours, and the textures,
And the sharpness in their tastes? Do you see how
Food is a marvel to be had with mindfulness,
And how lucky you have been, to have food at all?
