“You cannot eat your cake and have it too.”
“Many hands make light work.”
“Too many cooks spoil the broth.”
In those years of privation,
seeking salvation in sparks of hope and glory—
quiet desperation, ceaseless threats, a story
overtold but left bereft, unlearned
through epochs here or anywhere–
in bombs’ red glare and burning air–
I dreamt of cake,
and of Mother and aunts—too many hands
at mixing stands,
beating butter and eggs, then sifted flour,
timing minutes turned to hours—
and there I sat,
a bud within the warmth of light-filled bower.
Now, when cake comes at any time–
with coffee, or perhaps some wine,
without the help of the long-lost many,
the cake’s too sweet—I’m spoiled by plenty.
This poem is not autobiographical. It’s for my dVerse prompt today. Come join us as we write poems influenced by proverbs.