Deborah GuzziFrozen fingertip strike the wok
a lackluster sky edges to evening
upon a cacophony clock ticks
and the ping of peanut oil.
Chilies heat, they singe-sing in
reticence springs of olive oil.
Savor the snaps, water droplets
each tap dancing within an arch.
Tears run from my eyes. I long for
birdsong. Winter recedes with spices
uncapped. Dinner trills in the wok,
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