I cooked and ladled chowder for us three.
I served it to each person with a roll.
When Danny saw the steam, he questioned me:
Why does it tumble upward from the bowl?

He let me look through eyes not twelve years old
at something I see often and ignore,
for now I note that till the soup grows cold,
against the sunset steam appears to pour
in upward tendrils almost perfect white,
in billows ribboning and curling gray,
like cigarette smoke climbing to lamp light,
like fog reversed and rising from the bay.

His question gave a blessing to our group:
The miracle of steam above the soup.