The Widow Wyile writes
as she cooks
by feel and supposition
nary a book
in the kitchen
vegetable words
sliced and diced
cooked      raw    
some   slow
others in a flurry
she trims the ends
gives stems and leaves
a rinse
salts them lightly
tosses them in oil
but never never
boils them to mush 

Always go for the garlic
is her motto
ream the lemon
break the line
with a dash
rhyme just so
picky eaters
don’t turn away and pout
let your verse set
ferment a bit
            if you can
but never never
vacuum seal
your self or senses 

Err rather more
on deep long fills
tremendous tingles
embrace copious
feelings and air capacity
give life
a bite sautéed
in frolicsome
sound