Skimming the Dross

Skimming the dross
Off the top of a simmering pot
Froth of loss and withering shells
All that must be shed
To make a meal
Of fat and spice
Choices and cost
Fragrant and stirred with
A wooden spoon
From soil to consequence
As nourishment
Served to a fortunate few.

A practice in fire scrying

I once had a man with a soul
Nearly pitch black.
But boy, what a beauty 

he was to behold.

I once had a man who loved
The gold of others, so much so 

he never knew the value

of what he already owned.

I once had a man who was sweet
As he was plain;
The fence around his home 

was as far as he dare roam.

The man I have yet to know 

Is free.
Not one to be bought or sold,
He is rich with time and a curious thirst

For a woman who loves to be alone.