The old wooden spoon,
smooth from a thousand stirs,
is not just for broth.

It is a divining rod for hunger,
whispering of spices yet uncrushed,
ingredients still growing under sun and earth.

With a tap against the rim,
it can conjure the memory of your grandmother's kitchen,
the scent of vanilla, the warmth of yeast.

Swirled in an empty pot,
it charts the courses of meals to come,
predicting the first snow by the promise of stew,
or summer's bounty by a hint of berry compote.

It doesn't just mix;
it consults, it remembers, it dreams.
A humble oracle,
held within a common hand.