No spoon for his soup,

so he growled like a dog

and threatened to leave.

Sexy as a stripper

and smart as Madam Curie,

but so endearingly distracted,

she’d forget that he existed.

She wept and wailed to no avail

and vowed to be more thoughtful.

But her mind was not designed

to take care of meat and potatoes.

She fluttered and hovered,

and flit about blooming flowers

like a hungry hummingbird,

looking at this and looking at that,

sampling everything with color

or a mysterious scent of perfume.

Caught in the crossfire between

the monotony of wifely duties

and the fire of her imagination,

she couldn’t endure the soulless

sounds of pots, pans, silverware,

gurgle of sink and stink of toilet.

She needed flowers and wonderment,

washed clean by wind and rain,

more at home with mourning doves

under the shadow of weeping willows

than sorting socks and underwear.

She listened to silence and understood

the wordless language of the brightest stars.

She longed to breathe one full breath

and savor each moment as if it was new.

Cultivating aliveness was her passion,

more life-saving than a bowl of soup.