The First Feast

Olive black, black, black of flesh,
Fair eye languorous, fair eye yearning.
Bright tomato, onion fresh,
Garlic, you, with fire slow burning.

Melons and tomatoes, all
So well-turned to fit the hand,
And the peppers, big and small,
Ruby-red and scarlet, and

Eggplant of the purplest hue,
Figs that burst their pouch-tight skin:
Shine, you festive jewel-box you,
With my summer's gems within.

Fragile, the thyme feasts upon
Gravel, light, and even less.
Crickets chirping on and on
Sing a song of frugalness.

What shall be our bill-of-fare
For this first feast? Some vin fin?
Fine stuffed mushrooms? Saddle of hare?
Strawberries dipped in Chambertin?

No! Just olives, pure, pristine,
Simple cheese, unfrilled, unfussed,
Onions-bare, and raw, and green-
Water from the spring, a crust..