Soup

When I cook, I like
to make soup
because it’s easy,
a single pot full

of whatever
I deem worthy.
There’s little mess,
flavor to nurture

as long as I want
to linger, aroma
that winds its way
around me. But

even this costs
too much time
for me: I cook
with pressure,

my Instant Pot
enabling me to be
lazy, create hours
of flavor in minutes.

It tastes good, but
I always imagine
that something
is lost this way,

that a bullied soup
must mean less
than a slow boil,
long reverent hours.