Mince

In the kitchen’s quiet hush,
the butcher’s blade sings soft and low,
turning beef to fine mince, a blush
of scarlet threads that ebb and flow.

It sizzles in the pan, a fragrant steam,
herbs entwined – thyme, rosemary, a pinch of sage – while onions melt into a golden dream,
and garlic whispers through the sautéed stage.

A spoonful lifts, warm and comforting,
nestled in flaky pastry, crowned with zest,
the mince pie, a festive, spiced delight,
bringing cheer to frost‑kissed Christmas chest.

Yet mince can also mean to tread with care,
to step lightly, lest the fragile break – a dancer’s glide, a lover’s wary prayer,
in every careful move, a quiet ache.

So whether minced in meat or meant in gait,
the word holds both the hearty and the frail – a humble act, yet rich in fate,
that flavors life’s diverse, enduring tale.