She dreams of pots and pans,
A tumble in the kitchen and a laugh or two,
The fruits have a story to tell,
Of her, her husband and the stew.
As cuckoos call out,
she awakens in alarm,
she lights up the stove and the milk rises
while the bath out there gets warm.
The time warns as her teeth tingle,
should she chop or brush ?
But she heeds none and just looks on,
her husband stirs, in sleep so lush.
Lunch for him and start of a day,
each morning reminds her of a new chance.
As vegetables wait, she should decide,
Should she cook or dance ?
The pot meets fire as she dreams on,
He wakes and smells and smiles,
As the cuckoo calls to his charmer,
The wife responds in beguiles.
"Am I not a wife, so caring and pretty ?"
She asks her husband in whispers.
The pot beckons, don't forget me, O lady.
As the water in it boils and blisters.
The comb sweeps her hair,
And the mirror shines at her face,
Songs echo in the bedroom.
Her husband is surprised at her pace.
Swiftly she lifts the lid,
and peruses the pot and stew,
She changes color from pink to red,
Does she have to cook anew ?
She screams as she finds,
a burnt pot with black potatoes.
she cries and flies across.
To whom should she tell her kitchen woes ?
What can rest of the day bring ?
She seeks the company of her bed.
Her husband smiles as she moans.
"Its ok, you know", he said.
She cant be consoled.
He tells the cuckoo.
He picked a new set of pans and said,
"I will make you, my darling, the stew"
