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Sunken Garden Poetry Festival
Ode To the Omelette
I dice onions
that remind me of Renoir's
painting of onions
of onions
so real I weep
I crush cloves of garlic,
that are all pungences,
a shaman's breath,
the kitchen's verb.
I chop green flags
of scallions, and ripened
from my garden,
slice a tomato,
that becomes a song
when cut into wedges,
dripping with seeds,
as fragrant as
the garden itself
All of this goes into
the hot olive oil,
now sizzling,
now blessing the air.
I beat eggs,
pour them
into the skillet,
and because I am happy,
spread a handful
of grated cheddar over the top,
I finish this with
paprika for color,
cayenne for spicy heat,
tarragon for its gracious
offering of sweetness.
Carefully I fold it,
and now it is done;
sliding from the spatula
onto the plate,
radiant and steaming:
the omelette and its aroma,
that please me
by my creation,
my ode to the morning.
Wally Swist
Used with permission
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