Maturing

No, there are no popping corks.
It’s only the white noise of a dinner for one
Ricocheting off my inner skull,
Smashed aside
By a foreign Smörgåsbord of thoughts
Gatecrashing through my brain:
Those uninvited guests, again.

I don’t eat off their buffet.

Though the place that I set for myself
No longer needs a knife to cut
Or a fork with which to delve,
I still strive to spoon a humble bowl of broth
Made from some last morsels of goodness
Cultivated from a kind memory seed.

Summer brought drought,
But I’ll hibernate without too much hunger
Maturing into something sweeter next year.

No, there are no popping corks.

(A rough draft, left here to mature - By Hazy Dizzylady)