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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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