Photo Credit: photosteve101 Flickr via Compfight cc
Not My Poem
Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out.
This is a story about deception and it means nothing.
The old cabin had blue trees growing outside.
This poem was found online,
written by line generators,
then edited by Photoshop.
I know there’s no such thing as blue trees, but I believe that’s where the old woman lived
and I still believe I wrote this poem.
Some people can be naive that way.
Cooking is easy.
Once you have your mise en place of herbs, vegetables and spices,
once your meat is sizzling and your pots are steaming,
you can choose to follow the recipe or riff off it.
As I stare at this page, still blank, trying to think of something to make,
something different from what we had yesterday,
I wonder if I can cook at all.