Soup Sauterne

How do I tell her I love her?
I will put that in my soup,
with the salt that comes from brine.
The tart sexuality of vinegar.
The wishbone of a breast
hugging the invisible passion
of a heart in pain.
A glass of wine to brighten the broth
and the savor of greens,
repertoire of saying
what can not be said.
Your name can not be ladled
from water,
the odor of pale rain.
From nothing in life without
the omnipresent elation of spices,
which is astonishment.
Which is you, roots white as dawn
transforming earth into petals.