Over a Pot of Soup – StormWeaver #17

The kitchen has windows with
yellow shutters and white knobs,
Plants spilling over the sill,
A table with a honey pot, a plate of half eaten toast,
Chloe stirs soup at the stove,
Her is face flushed.
She turns.
“What happened?”
“He touched the kite,” Rose answers. She peers into the pot. “Done.”
“Adam, no!”
“No? Have you touched it?” I ask.
“Never. Mama says if you’re not careful, you may never come back.”
“I may never want to.” I say accepting a taste of soup from the spoon.
“That is exactly why you don’t touch,” Rose shakes her finger.

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