We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture. <br />Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence, <br />popped it right in. <br />That frog song wanting nothing but echo? <br />We used that. <br />Stirred it widely. Noticed the clouds while stirring. <br />Called upon our ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes <br />of summer. Dropped in their names. <br />Added a mint leaf now and then <br />to hearten the broth. Added a note of cheer and worry. <br />Orange butterfly between the claps of thunder? <br />Perfect. And once we had it, <br />had smelled and tasted the fragrant syrup, <br />placing the pan on a back burner for keeping, <br />the sorrow lifted in small ways. <br />We boiled down the lies in another pan till they disappeared. <br />We washed that pan.<br /><br />Naomi Shihab Nye<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/truth-serum/
