Down again. Tonight, it’s the purple
of heirloom tomatoes, 
I slice into olive oil, garlic, red-bell pepper,
short-grained rice, a pinch of saffron
or two. I add broth one ladle at a time.
I stir the rice and I am stirred 
by Beethoven sonatas 
alive in the fingers of Emil Gilels,
and stirred too by the winter setting that fills 
the window I look through to the sea
from my station at the stove. 
When the Waldstein Sonata begins, 
I cry into the copper-clad skillet 
I use for sautéing petrale sole
and for making frittata and risotto.
No need for a special pan. 
No need to steep a broth from scratch, 
bouillon paste from a jar, plus water, will do. 
Beethoven wrote thirty-two piano sonatas. 
Emil Gilels recorded all but five
before he died unexpectedly in Moscow. 
Sviatoslav Richter believed the KGB
had killed him, fearing he would defect to the West.
You might add lemon zest, capers, or olives,
if your risotto needs more zing.
All that really matters is the stirring
until every bit is tender, add broth, stir.