The rice cooker

I push my fingers into the pan, through the water, into the rice.
I agitate the water, watching as the water swiftly turns cloudy.
The bottom of this pan, only two inches below, disappears from view.
I let the water escape, using the glass lid to keep the rice.
I add more water.

This was the first time I did it like this,
the way which you thought would be best,
if you ever didn't have the rice cooker.

My fingers replicate yours,
the gentle treatment,
watching every grain as it shifts back and forth
and disappears beneath the white clouds.

I think of the watering can,
the flowers pointing towards the blue
as you rain the water down upon them, stem to root.
And all the time watching,
patient and grateful.

You pour the water away,
replacing it with clean water,
and the rice parts for the flow.
It goes into the cooker, and
you turn and nod,
asking if it is alright.

I reply, stem to root,
that all is fine, and I
take a seat,
patiently grateful.

My rice sits in the pan,
the smell of it lifting up to the blue,
and I nod to myself when I
think of you, and I
stand still,
patient and grateful.

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