Local Poet's tribute to Country Hen organic eggs

 

 

 

Ode to the Omelette

By Wally Swist

 

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 pungence,

 

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,

my ode to the morning.