Thyme and Ash


Thyme and Ash

Sweet sugar burns to a crisp,
No regard for the cinders,
Spewing from their mouths
Turn bitter, with the churning bile
Spewed over the tiled floor.
Civility takes shelter
In the broom cupboard
Where Babcia keeps her china.
“Mój Boże” she cries out,
In a blinding storm of white arms and flour
Dziadziu’s kawa spills, ruining his calligraphy,
He was making a calendar, June.
A pheasant sits in the upper right corner
Watching the parchment collapse.
Brown baskets hang above,
Swinging ever so slightly,
Not a care in the world.
They are full
Of oregano, mint, thyme, oh yes, thyme.
She always loved tymianek,
He smacks the basket of thyme to the ground
Blinking back tears,
Fiery words scorch the thyme beneath them
Reduced to ashes.

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