A howling wind and minus twenty, <br />sharp needle stings of icy hail. <br />Inside the massive house of plenty <br />my son and I drink Henning Ale. <br /> <br />Downstairs, the pantry, stocked with care <br />of all imaginable foods, <br />the shelves are full, no corner bare, <br />our pantry lifts and strengthens moods. <br /> <br />One hundred bottles of good wine, <br />Paulaner Pils and spirit choice, <br />a crock of Rollmops in their brine, <br />champagne from Henckell - their Rolls Royce. <br /> <br />And from the ceiling joists suspended, <br />a dozen hams, pork bellies, smoked, <br />this season's pigs whose lives have ended <br />and underneath, red cabbage, soaked <br />in apple cider marinade. <br />And pies and cakes and sour dough, <br />pink herring salad, freshly made, <br />through pantry walls no wind will blow, <br />all heavy stones, one meter thick. <br /> <br />A tiny window ventilates, <br />this smart construction is so slick <br />that in all seasons it equates <br />with isobars, it cannot freeze, <br />and stuff stays cool, will not go bad, <br />no mouse would come to cut the cheese. <br /> <br />The wind is howling as my lad <br />comes back with slabs of smoked pork belly, <br />and Schnaps of peaches, slowly aged, <br />we're leaning back to watch the telly. <br />Contented teeth are now engaged. <br /> <br />We ask ourselves how many days <br />the lady of the house intends <br />to stay away from her own place <br />when she comes back the freedom ends. <br /> <br />But while we have it, let us live, <br />the pantry has extensive storage, <br />and it will never cease to give <br />us items of exotic forage. <br /> <br />The logs are crackeling with joy, <br />outside the snow is one white sheet. <br />He smacks a bit, I say 'My boy, <br />this kind of life is hard to beat.'<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-pantry/
