The Gift of Garlic
Bulbs, grown underground, braided, bound, enweaved,
Hung far from gravity’s greed, from earth clumps
Freed, soon to be sautéed, made delicious.
Let cloves in papery clothes closely cleave.
Let me them pull apart, pleasingly plump,
Yet firm, fragrant, fresh as fire, ferocious.
Sharp bites my knife blade as it falls to cleave,
To dice, to mince. Up and down my wrist pumps.
Garlic on the griddle is glorious!
Oh God! To taste your gift is to believe.
How well you feed us!
___________
Paul Jones