Nettle Soup
A poem by N.L. Holmes

Nettle Soup

Tired of fighting the invincible
invaders with their numbing stun-guns,
I decide to eat them. Nettle soup
is on the menu. Pick them gloved,
boil them thrice – sounds like witch’s brew.
Exorcise their urticary devils
with running water. Now
a little broth, some shallots, and –
let’s splurge – good salty butter.
Oh unctuous velouté! Oh
liquid emerald! “Poison green,”
my husband skeptically decrees.
True, it’s hard to read their bland sincerity.
But taste those dew-drenched nights
beneath the sparkling stars, those
fine fall days festooned with scarlet vines,
this winning vintage redolent of its terroir.
I’m going to savor every spoon
of good French soup, of weeds
rendered exquisite,
of biters bitten.

About the Author:

N.L. Holmes is an archaeologist and author of thirteen historical novels set in antiquity. She lives in France with her husband, two cats and a barnyard full of big birds. www.nlholmes.com

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