My Grandmother’s kitchen was made up of Iron Pots.
Iron susceptible to charque firewood.
That reminded me so much of Iroko forests.
She would scrape off gathered black ashes
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.