A speaker stands in a messy kitchen, scrubbing hot, greasy pots, and her mind drifts to swimming in cold, dark-green water. She admits she's a poor swimmer, but the image gives her a sense of calm and space that the kitchen lacks. Then she thinks of a different kind of plunging and rising: meditation, a way of stepping out of the heat and clutter of daily life without actually leaving it.
The poem is really a question. How can she bring that deep, quiet focus to the work in front of her, and even love her pots and scouring pad? She is honest about how hard that is. Sore feet and itches pull her attention apart. She mentions having read that teaching might help, or simply the sound of a mantra, which works "wordlessly." The mood is wry, tired, and gently hopeful, a small struggle to find peace in ordinary chores.