Gypsy Soup

I remember the gypsy soup
thick with potato and radish,
ginger and stones and snow,
the gathered gifts of a day, bubbling pot
bellied over the camp fire
that flecked our teeth with gold
while the wind carried its murmurring smell
into the darkness that fell unnoticed
down the mountain to the village
where the people would suddenly pause
in the cold edge of the wilderness and think
I wish I was free
I wish I was free
before going inside to their suppers.