Poem: Aging

Again, a poem I wrote in a writer's workshop. The prompt was "write about aging."

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Aging

A pot ages on the stove, effervesces in a film of brine.
A tap with a spoon on its crust, as if creme brulee
and a flame coaxing the soup from its stupor
into a welling of lemongrass and coconut
steaming my glasses as I stir.
Each circle of the ladle draws in new colors,
the fire of a carrot, the silk of tofu,
the lucency of onions, the curry spice.

Do you think it's still good, she asks.
We made it on her birthday, and ever since, she's resented time,
that winged chariot, that muse of poetry.
It rumbles past outside, in the cold.
What is it for our pasts to slough off,
why are we so recalcitrant,
why must we dig in our heels to slow the earth's revolution
or else hide in an hourglass' wake?
What could we want or imagine or have
if we could leash time to our bending, if we cage it
or well it into dams? Unleash it during boredom,
savor it in joy, curl it as a madman or sorceror?

If I could bottle time, I would cork it, hide it,
keep it in the cabinet next to the cinnamon and nutmeg.
I'd add a dash or two every time I make lemongrass soup.